The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  It was all dark wood, thick cigarette smoke, the sweet smell of alcohol and the rather subdued, familiar murmur emanating from lunchtime drinkers, so different from the noise and clamour that would fill the establishment after five p.m.

  The young detective looked about, eventually spotting the man he was looking for sitting at a small iron-legged table under a window.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. DC – acting DS Daley.’ He still hadn’t become accustomed to his new title. Better not to, as it was merely a temporary advancement, he reasoned.

  ‘Yes, Daley. Thanks for coming here to meet me,’ replied the man at the table, tapping his pipe out in a tin ashtray bearing the trademark of a well-known lager. ‘I should have come back to the office. But, as you probably know, as soon as you set foot back in that bloody place you’re assailed by problems and stupid requests from all and sundry. I swear, the buggers just like to look as though they’re busy.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink, sir?’

  ‘Yes, just a half pint of light, please. My lunch, you know.’

  Daley returned with the drink for DI Graham and a soda water for himself.

  ‘You not a drinker, Daley?’

  ‘Not on duty, sir.’

  Graham nodded his head gloomily. ‘I should give you a pat on the back for that, young man. But it just makes me feel as though I’m rapidly becoming an anachronism in the job. When I joined up, if you didn’t take a drink you didn’t last long. Nobody trusted you. Different days, mark you – better in many ways.’

  ‘How long have you been in the job, sir?’

  ‘Nearly thirty years – and no, the time has not flown. Joined up just after my national service. I suppose I couldn’t imagine a working life out of uniform. I’d have stayed in the army, but they were cutting back, so I joined the thin blue line. Irony is, I’ve spent the great majority of my police career in civvies.’

  ‘I’m pleased to be joining the team, sir.’

  ‘Pleased to have you. Just what Speirs and his merry men need, a good kick up the arse from some younger men. They’re all damn good detectives, but too independently minded. I should be at their heels like a bloody terrier, but I’m too busy trying to work things out in my head. As you’ll discover, when it comes to investigating leads, they’re top notch. Just don’t ask them to produce original thought.’ He eyed Daley as he relit his pipe. ‘But that’s why you’re here, young James. You come highly recommended. Not least by poor Ian Burns.’

  It was Daley’s turn to assess his new boss as he tamped down a new pinch of tobacco in his pipe, then took a long match to it, initiating a series of puffs and billows of pungent smoke. He was a neat man; had a tidy collar as Daley’s mother would have it. He wore a well-pressed dark grey suit and a white shirt, with a dark blue tie buttoned up in a tight knot. He had no hair on the top of his head, merely a monkish fringe, which was probably why he wore his trademark trilby, presently sitting beside him atop a neatly folded trench coat. His eyes were dark and watchful, and he had a spray of small purple veins on both cheeks that reminded Daley of Ian Burns. Again, his heart sank.

  ‘You want to ask me what I think about what happened to your old boss, don’t you?’ said Graham, as though he’d read Daley’s thoughts. ‘Well, I don’t think for one minute that it was your fault, if you’re worried about that. I knew Ian reasonably well, and any man less likely to take off for a spot of hill walking I cannot conceive.’

  ‘DCI Sanderson doesn’t share that opinion, sir.’

  ‘You’ll find that DCI Sanderson and I have few opinions in common, Daley. The very fact he has reached the rank he has makes me despair about the way things are going. He couldn’t catch a bloody cold, as far as I’m concerned. I’m sorry to be so frank; I know you’ll have some residual loyalty to him having just left his charge.’

  ‘Absolutely no need to worry on that score, sir,’ said Daley without hesitation.

  ‘Good. Wisely assessed.’ DI Graham took a couple more puffs of his pipe as he surveyed the room. ‘I know about the threatening letters,’ he offered suddenly.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve known about them for as long as you have.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ Daley was again surprised. He’d thought that Ian Burns had confided solely in him. Though he was pleased not to have to explain the situation to Graham, he was slightly disappointed that his old mentor had found it necessary to trust someone besides him with the information.

  ‘No need to feel down about it, son. Ian – as you know – wanted it kept quiet. I can do nothing quietly now that I’m in the Squad. He – we – needed someone we could trust, who could work behind the scenes without too much scrutiny. You were that man. Sadly, it turns out we were wrong.’ Noting the sudden look of desolation on Daley’s face, he changed tack slightly. ‘Not wrong about you, Daley, wrong about the real level of threat those missives represented.’

  Daley was going to ask DI Graham if he was aware of ACC Taylor’s interest in the case, but something stopped him before the words could form in his mouth. Taylor had made no mention of Graham’s having knowledge of the letters. And, knowing Ian Burns as he had, the young detective was sure that he would have had a number of contacts with whom he would share various bits and pieces; contacts who might not necessarily be aware of each other. He decided to bide his time in finding the answer to that particular question.

  ‘Here’s another reason Ian and I shared this information that you should know about.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a brown envelope. ‘Here, take a look.’

  Daley took the envelope and looked inside. He fished out a letter, written on expensive paper in what looked like blood. It read, simply, Time you were gone. For a moment or two, Daley was nonplussed. ‘This is exactly the same as the ones DCI Burns received,’ he said, not really wanting to give the thought voice, but doing so all the same.

  ‘Yes. Interesting, isn’t it? I must say, like your old gaffer, I was inclined to view this as the work of some crank with whom we’d had some forgotten mutual contact over the years. But, I’m very sad to say, the recent tragic events have rather made that theory redundant.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Daley, absolutely meaning it.

  ‘Yes, it’s a hard one, that’s for sure. However, I think that one thing is definitely clear.’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘These letters have something to do with the Midweek Murders.’

  ‘But how, sir? I mean Ian – DCI Burns – was retired long before these crimes began. I know he had a theory about the past, but does that stand up?’

  ‘Before the most recent crimes, yes, you’re right. But, as I think you are aware, DS Daley, Ian Burns thought that what is happening now had its roots in the past – going as far back as his early years in the job. I believe he was correct in that assumption.’

  ‘But how does that involve you, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind at all. But tell me what you know first.’

  Daley thought for a moment. ‘Just that DCI Burns felt that similar murders had taken place years ago, while he was still a beat cop. He thought the MO then and now were too similar to be a coincidence. I think he tried to pursue this, but came up against a brick wall.’ Daley bit his lip.

  ‘Spit it out, son.’

  ‘He thought a cop – or cops – were involved, sir.’

  Graham took a few more puffs on his pipe, then upended it, patting glowing tobacco out into the ashtray using the palm of his hand.

  The noise level in the bar had risen, as a race was about to begin. Punters fiddled nervously with bookies’ lines, or ordered another quick drink as the horses were being ushered to the starting gate.

  The DI leaned forward. ‘Ian told his sergeant of his concerns at the time, but nothing came of them,’ he said quietly. ‘He then turned to someone he thought he could trust. Someone new to it all, untainted by any possible corruption, or whatever it was
he thought was going on.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A young DC, just in the job, and lucky enough to get a break in CID because his old captain in the army was now the DI.’

  Daley furrowed his brow, still none the wiser.

  ‘Oh, come on, DS Daley. I’ve been told to have high expectations of you. Bright, the future of the force.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know too much about the early part of DCI Burns’s career – only what he told me.’

  ‘That young DC was me, Jim.’

  26

  Kinloch, the present

  Daley was working on the clear board in the main CID suite when a sudden gust rattled the windows, prompting him to gaze out into the darkness. The street light danced in the strong wind and rain, illuminating tumbling litter on Main Street and sending the good citizens of the town scurrying into cars; early on the go, perhaps a baker or a nurse, thought Daley. Like his own, occupations to which normal working hours were strangers. He stood still, watching a white plastic bag with absent fascination as it rose into the air, tugged to and fro as though by an invisible hand. It reminded him of a film Liz had liked, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember its name.

  Then he pondered upon just how tiny things, mere snippets of conversation, or memories of fleeting seconds in the past, could remain rooted in the mind for no apparent reason.

  Behind him, a young DC swore as he typed furiously on a computer keyboard, bringing Daley back to the here and now. The young detective apologised when he realised his boss was in the room.

  ‘You’ve been spending too much time listening to DS Scott,’ remarked Daley before he turned his attention back to the board and the images that had been roaring silently in his head for days.

  A large black-and-white photograph of Helen McNeil in her district nurse’s uniform stared back at him. Alongside, in a colour image, a smiling Colin Galt looked more youthful than the strained individual with whom Daley had become familiar.

  Above, various shots of three graves on a lonely Kintyre hillside appeared at odds with one of a happy woman wearing a golden locket in a faded photograph; this was the photograph that had immediately transported him painfully back more than twenty years. A thin red line ran between her image and the skeletal remains lying at the bottom of the impromptu grave nearest the sea: her resting place for all those years. That is, if the brutally murdered could ever truly rest.

  The big detective barely registered the opening of the door. He almost jumped when Symington spoke.

  ‘An old governor I used to work with in Wandsworth nick used to do that, Jim. He stared just the way you’re doing, sometimes for half an hour at a time.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  ‘Not really. He was one of the least successful detectives I’ve ever known. I think they call it mindfulness now.’

  Daley sighed. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m wasting my time, ma’am.’

  ‘No, not at all. We all have our own methods. I worry more about manning levels, HR and budgets these days. It’s almost like not being in the police at all.’ It was her turn to stare out on to the windswept streets of the town. ‘Sometimes I feel I’m more akin to a second-rate accountant than a police officer.’

  ‘Can I have a word with you?’

  The two of them walked into Daley’s glass box, and the DCI pushed the door shut with more force than he intended, making it rattle.

  ‘I know you’re frustrated, Jim. What’s happened to Galt, on top of losing McNeil, is a blow. I’ve just had to explain the circumstances to the ACC. But, you must agree, there’s no way I could authorise a search – especially in these conditions.’

  ‘I take it the chopper’s still grounded, too?’

  ‘Yes. They’re here, but can’t fly in this wind. We’re hoping there’ll be a window in the weather about eight.’

  ‘We need people on the hill before then, ma’am – as soon as it gets light.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been organising a team. We’ve some bodies coming from Division to help out. They’re on their way, plus the Tactical Firearms Unit, of course. By road, so don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘I’d better get out there and get ready to coordinate. It’ll start getting light soon.’

  She sat down heavily on the chair opposite his, staring at him across the large desk. ‘Let me do that, Jim. I want you to keep thinking, keep working things through. I’m sure there’s something we’re missing.’

  ‘It’s strange ground for you, Carrie. We’ve a couple of local guys retained as Specials. One of them is a local farmer; bit of a hill climber, too. He tells me that he knows the area reasonably well. We’ll take our lead from him until we can get eyes from the helicopter.’

  ‘Good. You’ve just justified my taking charge of it. What difference will it make that I don’t know the hill? Are you seriously telling me you’ve been rambling about up there since you arrived here?’ She smiled.

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘Where’s Brian?’

  ‘He’s off with Potts to knock up those two archaeologists working on a project in Machrie. A villager told us she’d seen Galt with one of them on a couple of occasions.’

  ‘Accomplices?’

  ‘Surely not. I mean, if they’re pilfering their own site, it’s pretty bloody obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nowt as queer as folks,’ replied Symington, suddenly adopting her native Yorkshire accent. ‘It would be reckless, but then again, how often have you arrested reckless people?’

  ‘Good point.’ Daley leaned back in his chair, neck craned back, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Just tell me, Jim. I don’t care how daft it sounds, just run it past me – please.’

  ‘You know I have to be extra careful with this. I know you’ve read the old case notes. I can’t afford to lose credibility the way . . . well, the way I did then.’

  ‘Who’s going to find out? This is between you and me.’

  Daley got to his feet, taking time to tuck his recalcitrant shirt tail back into his waistband. ‘I’m thinking about connections.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Okay. All of a sudden these remains are found, then McNeil is abducted – or whatever.’

  ‘Or whatever – what do you mean?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Daley, leaning on his desk, looking down at Symington. ‘The locket; it could connect Galt to the Midweek Murders – in what way, we don’t know. Now we think Galt may have abducted McNeil. If so, why is he where he is now? And, thinking logically, he looks to have been doing a roaring trade selling historical artefacts – handling a hoard that just happens to include the locket. How did he come across that piece in particular? Was it from the current dig, or has he – or someone else – been up to some amateur archaeology?’

  ‘Or has he had it for much longer?’ They both paused, thinking about this. ‘What does Francombe say?’

  ‘She doesn’t recognise any of the pieces Galt was hiding. I mean, apart from the locket they’re broadly of the right age to have been part of the site she’s working on, but she swears that none of the three graves had been tampered with prior to her team’s arrival.’

  ‘And it stands to reason that the only place the locket could have come from is the grave of its owner.’

  ‘Yes – but as you say, does it? How can it have come from a grave that hadn’t been touched?’

  ‘And Professor Francombe is certain about that?’

  ‘Not just her, the rest of the team, too.’ Daley sat back down. ‘So, there we have it. We have a piece of personal jewellery belonging to a murder victim turning up amongst a pile of looted artefacts, but apparently not from her grave.’

  ‘So, are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  ‘You tell me. Please reassure me I’m not clutching at straws.’

  ‘Galt is the Midweek Murderer?’

  ‘He’s old enough. He studied in Glasgow at the time of the murders. He travelled regularly between here and the city.
The list goes on, ma’am.’

  ‘Doesn’t do much for your old mentor’s theory that the murderer had a connection to the police.’

  ‘Everyone makes mistakes. And let’s be honest, we’ve not had the chance to look properly into Galt’s past, have we?’

  Chief Superintendent Carrie Symington thought for a few moments, then got to her feet with a yawn. ‘You keep thinking, Jim. I’d better get going and arrange that search party. We’ll have to be careful. For a start, there are firearms involved. We need to know who else is up on that hill, and what connection they have to Galt.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve already stepped up to an armed guard at the hospital. He’s still touch and go. But going back, we always thought that whoever the murderer was they had an accomplice.’

  Symington strode to the door. ‘I need to borrow Brian, if I can, Jim,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘Of course, but do me a favour.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Make sure he wears a bloody vest, ma’am.’ Daley hesitated. ‘Oh, and do I have your permission to run background checks on the archaeological team, as well as Galt’s employees? We need to try to work out how he came into possession of all this priceless treasure.’

  ‘Of course, go ahead. Keep me up to speed, will you?’

  Before he could reply, she was gone.

  Daley thought about his theory. If he was right, it stood to reason that Ian Burns was wrong. Colin Galt may well be a serial killer, but he wasn’t a police officer.

  As always, doubt – that great enemy of reason – clouded his thoughts.

  The strong wind tugged at the machair, sending sand and sea spray into the air. Scott and Potts had driven almost two miles down a potholed single-track road as the growing storm rocked their SUV. Now, parked next to the low fisherman’s cottage that was the temporary residence of the maritime archaeological team, Scott eyed the slanting rain with distaste.