The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘You’ll be working with the team. It’s to be headed up by DI Graham. He’s a good, steady man – a clever detective. One of the best we have, in fact.’ Suddenly he sounded uncertain.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Though DI Graham is clever – gifted, even – he lacks certain qualities. Mainly, he’s a lone wolf, happiest when he’s out digging around himself, rather than running the department. But there’s no one more likely to find Ian’s killer, so he is the automatic choice. In short, though, team management is not his strong suit.’

  ‘What will my function be, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’m just coming to that.’ Taylor cleared his throat. ‘Because DI Graham lacks management skills, his deputy – as usual – will be coordinating everything. I want you to get involved with that side of things, Jim.’

  ‘Help out with admin?’

  ‘No, not just that. I want you to make sure that no information turned up by DI Graham manages to go missing, or fails to be communicated to the right people.’ Taylor eyed Daley unsmilingly.

  ‘Is that likely? I mean, is it likely that evidence concerning the murder of DCI Burns will go astray? I would have thought that every cop out there would be desperate to find the bastard who did this.’

  ‘Yes, so you would have thought – and I’m not saying that isn’t the case.’ He walked to the window of his office, high in Strathclyde Police HQ on Pitt Street. ‘Ian was working with me on a little theory.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know what he wrote to you in the letter Amanda gave you. We discussed it. Ian had major concerns about how the Midweek Murders case was being run by his old divisional CID. It’s one of the reasons – plus the growing number of victims – that we have taken over the task. That, and the lack of leadership at Stewart Street.’

  ‘Sanderson?’

  ‘No, not directly, but certainly his ineptitude doesn’t help.’

  ‘Are we talking about the misguided loyalty Ian mentioned in his letter to me?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid we are. As the letter says, there are suspicions that a police officer, serving or retired, or someone close to him or her, is closely involved with the murder of these women.’

  ‘How do we know?’

  ‘We have intelligence, that’s all I can say right now. You’ll have to trust me on it, Jim – for the time being, at any rate.’

  ‘So what’s my role?’

  ‘Taking nothing at face value – nothing. Get in with the team – play the part if you have to.’

  ‘Play the part?’

  ‘Go along with things, even if you know it’s wrong. Then report back to me. We’ll organise some way we can meet regularly, away from prying eyes.’

  ‘Can I ask a question? With the greatest respect, sir.’

  ‘You mean why don’t I just come down with a heavy hand and go through things like a hurricane?’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘You know how police officers work, Jim. Once you have this shit on your shoulder you’re no longer an operational policeman – almost the enemy, in fact. Certainly true as far as many of our colleagues are concerned, wouldn’t you say? Even straight, decent cops would baulk at knocking at my door and telling me about any misgivings. Ian Burns told me you were the man to solve this problem – a man we could trust implicitly. If you feel you can’t do it for me, please, do it for Ian Burns. Only a fool would think that what happened to him isn’t connected with the suspicions we have. I don’t buy the old adversary with a grudge explanation.’

  ‘Does that mean that – one way or the other – you’re in danger too?’

  Taylor shrugged his shoulders. ‘Logically, yes, that would appear to be the case.’

  ‘And following that logic, sir, where does that leave me?’

  ‘Not hard to work out, Jim. I’ll do my best to help you – to protect you. But I’d be lying if I said there was no risk. Now you’re a DS – acting, at any rate – I’m willing to consider a temporary appointment of a DC to help you. You need someone to watch your back – safety in numbers and all that. Do you have anyone in mind?’

  ‘DC Brian Scott, sir,’ said Daley, without hesitation.

  For the first time in the conversation Taylor smiled. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’

  ‘He’s a good man, sir – a bit rough and ready, I grant you, but in these circumstances there’s nobody I’d rather have with me.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Best you get down to the incident room. DI Graham is off somewhere, but the rest of the team are there.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Daley stood to leave, then paused. ‘One thing, sir: who is the coordinating officer you mentioned? DI Graham’s deputy, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes. His name’s Bobby Speirs.’

  Kinloch, the present

  Daley stared at the large map on the wall. Scott had been dispatched to re-arrest Colin Galt, who had been released from custody, mainly to see what he would do. Now, with new evidence, it was time for him to return to custody. He suspected the businessman was involved with the felonious possession of historical artefacts, but the discovery of Anne Marie MacKean’s locket in amongst the stash was something else entirely.

  Sergeant Shaw stood with him as they pored over the depiction of the Kintyre Peninsula.

  ‘Right, so the last sighting we have of Helen McNeil was here,’ said Daley, pointing to the straight road almost two thirds of the way to Machrie from Kinloch.

  ‘Yes, sir. The guy who saw her was driving into town. He recognised the car. She’s been attending his elderly wife recently, so they exchanged a wave – he said it was definitely her behind the wheel.’

  Daley stared at the terrain: beach, machair, rocky bays and the village itself, all framed by the hills beyond. This wasn’t going to be easy to search, but he had to do something to move the investigation on. Even though he suspected they’d turn up nothing, he hoped a search using police officers and members of the public would be enough to panic anyone who was holding Helen against her will. That was if she was being held in the area, if they were searching in the right place, and if she was still alive. ‘No sign of the car, or signal from her mobile, I take it?’

  ‘No, sir, not a thing.’

  He turned thoughts over in his mind. It didn’t bear too much scrutiny. Daley had railed against the hospital boss for allowing her to attend the call, given her circumstances, but really he blamed himself. However, he couldn’t help but wonder what this quiet, self-effacing nurse had done to attract such vitriol. He had no doubt in his mind that her disappearance and the fake calls she’d been receiving were connected.

  Coincidence – it happens, but be aware. Again he recalled the old mantra his first boss had taught him.

  As Shaw was relating how difficult the search across some of the rugged hillside above Machrie might prove, Daley felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. Liz, the screen read. How typical of her, he thought. Almost like a second sense, she seemed to be able – even now – to know when he was under most stress and proceed to make his life even more difficult. It had happened throughout their marriage, now it was happening even though they were no longer together.

  He clicked the call off with a flourish, and turned his attention back to the map.

  Scott and DC Potts were on their way to Machrie and the home of Colin Galt.

  The streets of Kinloch had been thronged with people, all celebrating the marathon weekend. But Machrie was quiet, save for the last flames of a magnificent sunset as it popped beneath the horizon, an explosion of red, yellow and orange, followed by green and purple hues reflected on the mighty Atlantic until the dark of night turned the sea black, ready to reflect the waxing moon and the ancient light from billions of stars.

  They drove up a hill and through a set of open ornamental gates. Though the house was designed to look old, it was modern, and clashed with the bare hillside. No illumination showed from within save for one of the upstairs rooms, from
which a dim light flickered, almost like candlelight.

  ‘Right, son. You know the scoop,’ said Scott as they exited the car. ‘You cloak roond the back, just in case this slippery bastard decides tae get on his toes. I’ll go and gie the front door a hefty chap.’ He watched as Potts slid round the back of the building, then took the three steps up to the front door. A security lamp burst into life above his head. He grabbed a heavy cast-iron knocker and thudded it against the stout oak door in four sharp raps.

  As he waited, he listened for movement from within, slipping open the heavy letterbox with one finger the better to hear what was going on inside.

  Though he held his breath, there was no sound of footfall on the stairs, nor bustle along the hall towards the door. He knocked again, though this time with more force.

  ‘Mr Galt, it’s the police. We want tae talk to you, now!’ he shouted. Still he could discern no movement from within the property.

  He was about to lift the knocker again, when he heard Potts cry out.

  ‘Sergeant, quick!’

  Scott raced round the side of the house, just in time to see Potts disappearing into the gloom towards the hill behind.

  ‘What the hell’s happening?’ called Scott, taking to his heels after his colleague.

  ‘Look – up the hill!’ shouted Potts breathlessly.

  Scott squinted ahead as he took the first steps on to the rise. Sure enough, he could make out two figures making their way further up the hill. The larger of the two – Galt, Scott reckoned – appeared to be almost dragging his companion along after him.

  The detective nearly lost his footing, regaining his balance just in time to see his younger colleague vault agilely over a fence, using one hand on a post to propel himself over. Fuck that, Scott wheezed to himself.

  As he paused to take the fence in a less spectacular fashion, he could see that Potts was gaining ground on their quarry, one of whom appeared to have stumbled and was being hauled back to his or her feet.

  ‘Shit!’ shouted Scott, his breathing rapid now as he jumped down from the fence and hurried after Potts. This might be Helen McNeil; certainly, the figure being pulled up the hill looked to be female, and unsteady enough to make Scott think she might be under duress in some way. ‘Keep going, son. We have to get to them before we lose the light!’

  Even as he spoke, Potts’s pale grey jacket was fading into the hill in the darkness. Scott was scrambling now, his tan brogues no match for this rough hillside, slick with mud and damp grass.

  As he stumbled on to his hands and knees, a scream rent the darkness, followed by more shouting and the sounds of a scuffle.

  Running in the direction of the noise now, Scott, almost sightless in the velvet darkness, tried to orient himself by staring over at the sliver of moonlight now streaking across the sea towards the looming coast of County Antrim. The sun had fully set, leaving a bright, almost full moon to hold sway in the sky.

  Up ahead, there was the unmistakable crack of fist hitting flesh and bone, followed by cry of pain.

  He saw movement to his left, rushed towards it and saw Potts rolling on the rocky hillside with another man.

  Slipping and sliding, he scrabbled across the slick heather, and was only a matter of yards away from the fracas when a sharp crack issued from somewhere in the darkness. There was a cry of pain followed by a groan, as one of the figures went limp, lying still in the moonlight.

  ‘Potts – son!’ shouted Scott, fearing the worst. But as he reached the scene, he almost jumped as he saw a beam of white light dart across the hillside.

  ‘Get down, Sergeant,’ roared Potts, as he directed his torch towards the saddle between two peaks.

  ‘Are you okay, Potts?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure about our friend here. Quick, can you call the cavalry?’

  As Scott removed the phone from his jacket, he peered at the figure now curled at his feet. A cross between a wheeze and a desperate cry of pain was emanating from Colin Galt as he lay almost motionless save for a desperate twitch in his right hand, now pinned underneath him.

  ‘Jimmy, it’s me. Get an ambulance oot here quick! We’re on the hill behind Galt’s hoose at Machrie. He’s taken a bullet. Oh aye, an’ bring a torch – a big one!’ Scott listened to the response for a few heartbeats then hung up.

  ‘Are they on their way, Sergeant?’ asked Potts, still searching the hillside with his powerful torch.

  ‘Aye. But put that bloody torch doon. You’re turnin’ us intae sitting ducks. Whoever fired that gun only has tae take aim at the beam and you’re a goner.’

  Before the DS could finish the sentence, the light was extinguished and both detectives knelt over the stricken man.

  ‘He’s still got a strong enough pulse,’ said Scott, removing his fingers from Galt’s neck. ‘I think he took the blow on the shoulder.’ He held his hand close to his face in the darkness, smelling the distinctive tang of fresh blood. ‘Here, help me put pressure on the wound. He’s bleeding heavily.’

  As Potts did as he was told, another shot rang out, whining as it ricocheted off a boulder.

  ‘Hit the deck!’ screamed Scott.

  As he looked tentatively back up the hill, a shaft of moonlight illuminated two figures making their way upwards.

  Galt groaned, suddenly regaining consciousness. ‘Help her – please help her,’ he managed to whisper before his head rolled sideways.

  ‘Colin – Mr Galt,’ said Scott, checking for the pulse on the stricken man’s neck. ‘How the hell have you got yourself in this mess?’

  Though Galt’s pulse was weak, it was steady, but answer came there none.

  24

  Glasgow, 1994

  Every face turned to Daley as he entered the room. It was a typical CID office, dotted with desks groaning under the weight of paper and cardboard files. Each bore a typewriter, some word processors and a phone, with various framed photographs of wives, girlfriends and children scattered about. This wasn’t just any CID office, though; it was the home of Strathclyde’s Serious Crime Squad.

  Daley noted that there were signs of this. No smutty calendars on the walls, and the office had its own coffee machine – most unusual.

  ‘Can we help you?’ asked a rugged old detective from behind his newspaper. His face was deeply etched with lines, no doubt a testament to many years of hard drinking, smoking and insufficient sleep. The familiar blue haze of sweet tobacco smoke hung just below the ceiling.

  ‘I’m looking for DS Speirs. I was told he was in,’ said Daley confidently.

  ‘How come I know your face?’ asked his interlocutor with a quizzical look.

  ‘You tell me,’ Daley replied, not willing to play the usual game of hide and seek so common when you started a new job with a change of police colleagues. Soon, he’d be asked his name, favourite colour and place of birth – almost anything, in fact, rather than a direct question as to, which side of Glasgow’s religious divide he happened to fall on.

  Before the detective could respond, another voice sounded from the back of the room.

  ‘You be careful, Kenny. You’re talking tae a superior.’ A balding man with a round face was propped up against the door jamb of an adjoining office. He looked Daley up and down with an expression of weary distain.

  Kenny looked from one to the other, not sure if he should take the second-in-command of his section seriously, or not.

  ‘This here is young DC – I mean, acting DS Jim Daley. The darling of A Division – I’m right, am I not?’ He directed an insincere smile in Daley’s direction.

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ said Kenny with little contrition, as he turned his attention back to the newspaper.

  ‘So, you’ve come tae teach us all what we should be doing, son, eh?’

  ‘DS Speirs?’ asked Daley, unmoved by the sarcasm.

  ‘Well done! Did they gie you my photo?’

  ‘Can I have a word with you, please?’

  ‘You can have as may words as you w
ant, son. Ask away.’

  ‘In private, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, come on. This isnae the refined atmosphere o’ Stewart Street. We’re a team – close-knit. We trust each other here – don’t we, lads?

  Daley sighed. He was always surprised by the way police officers seemed to be constantly at odds with each other. Tension between individuals, shifts, divisions, squads, forces – it never ended. Without comment, he pushed his way past Speirs and into the office.

  DS Jim Daley was in no mood to play games.

  The present

  Helen concentrated on her breathing, trying to keep it slow and steady: in through her nose, out through her mouth. After a few minutes she was convinced that she could smell something of which hitherto she hadn’t been aware. The nurse concentrated hard, screwing up her eyes to try to focus on this new smell.

  Then, it came to her: she was near the sea.

  The salty tang of the sea was ever-present in the lives of Kintyre’s citizens, so most were desensitised to the underlying aroma that pervaded their environment. Unless they were very close to the element itself.

  She calmed her breathing again, feeling her heart rate slow. There, through the musty smell of earth and decay was the unmistakable smell of the sea, she was convinced.

  However, Helen wasn’t too sure just how this new discovery could help. She supposed it narrowed down the potential places in which she could be contained, but it wasn’t a solution in itself.

  Then it came to her. Suddenly, without warning, the subconscious part of her brain had calculated her most likely location.

  But surely it couldn’t be!

  She strived to keep her breathing slow and steady, but the heady mixture of excitement and horror she felt made this temporarily impossible.

  All she had to do now was turn this new knowledge to her own advantage. The question was, how?

  Doctors and nurses rushed to and fro as Daley and Scott sat in the corridor outside Kinloch Hospital’s intensive care unit. So far, despite Daley’s attempts to glean information, they were none the wiser as to the condition of Colin Galt.

  As a doctor he knew rushed down the corridor towards them, Daley opened his mouth ready to ask again, but was waved away.