The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘You should’ve brought a rain jacket, Sergeant.’

  ‘Nae need. You’re here, son. Just you get oot there and chap the door. If you think someone’s inside, gie me the thumbs up and I’ll jump oot the motor.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ replied Potts ruefully.

  ‘See one day, you’ll be a DS. Then you can send some daft bastard oot intae the rain. Stands tae reason, a man wae brains like you, that knows aboot Vikings and big words. Come on, jump to it, young man.’ He smiled with quiet satisfaction; another point scored.

  As the unfortunate Potts stumbled out into the deluge, Scott rubbed the condensation from the passenger window with his sleeve. He stared out into the rain, the dark shadow of the tall hill to his left just about visible through the downpour and darkness. Though it was barely four in the morning, and despite the heavy rain clouds, Scott detected a grey light framing the horizon. Daylight was on its way, though the rain showed no signs of abating. A line of pale light appeared in the wing mirror of the car as the sun hauled itself up to banish the black of night.

  As he squinted into the gloom, something caught his eye. At first he thought it was a reflection from inside the vehicle on to the window, but looking around the car’s interior he could see nothing that could be causing this to happen. He looked again – there it was.

  Scott pulled the radio from his pocket and called Kinloch. Soon, he was patched through to Daley. ‘I’ve got something here, Jimmy.’

  ‘What, with the archaeologists?’

  ‘Nah, up on the hillside. I’m sure I can see a light – tiny, but it’s there.’

  As the radio crackled, the driver’s door of the SUV swung open, revealing a drenched Potts.

  ‘Can you get up there, Brian?’ Daley asked through the static.

  ‘Who do you think I am, Ranulph Fiennes? It’s sheer from here. Aye, and it’s pouring and blowing a gale, too.’

  ‘Anything from the archaeologists?’

  Scott looked at Potts, who shook his head miserably as he tried to dry his hair with a paper tissue. ‘No sign, Jimmy. The birds have flown.’

  ‘Stand by, Brian. The Chief Super is organising the search. I’ll get her to call you. In the meantime, keep eyes on that light.’ The radio crackled off.

  ‘Get that heater on, son. We’re standing by.’

  ‘Great,’ said Potts, doing his best to wring out the sodden paper tissue. ‘Just great.’

  27

  Glasgow, 1994

  Anne Marie McKean’s parents lived in a nondescript housing scheme in the north of Glasgow. The street was grey and drab, with the inevitable gang tags scrawled across walls, bus shelters and the boarded-up windows of empty properties.

  Daley and DI Graham found the right close and took the stairs to the second floor. Graham knocked on the door, and both detectives stood back awaiting a reply.

  A small, plump woman appeared, squeezing herself between the heavy door and its jamb. When Graham flashed his warrant card and introduced them as police officers, she visibly shrank, her head bowed towards the floor. ‘Aye, I suppose yous better come in.’

  She led them along a bright, old-fashioned hallway, with patterned paper, a telephone on a small table, and a thinning floral carpet. She swung open the door at the end of the hall, revealing a small lounge, where an old electric fire buzzed in a hearth below a tiled mantelpiece, bookended by two china dogs, or wally dugs as they were known.

  Two blue budgies twittered in a cage on a stand, and a small transistor radio played on a light wooden sideboard. Beside it stood a whisky decanter, to which Mrs McKean plodded before turning to offer the policemen a drink.

  ‘I’d offer yous tea, but tae be honest, I just don’t have the energy tae make any. There’s no’ much tea been drunk in this place o’er the last couple o’ days,’ she said as she switched off the radio.

  Daley was about to reply, intent on politely refusing the offer, but Graham spoke first. ‘Aye, the very thing, Mrs McKean. There’s still a chill in the air. Just straight for me – I’m sure my colleague will have the same.’ He glanced at Daley, who nodded in response.

  There came the sound of footsteps in the hall, and a rather dishevelled man entered the room. He was in late middle age, and sported a stained vest over which a pair of grey braces held up his baggy black trousers. He too was stout, but like his wife the lines and shadows on his face spoke of long hours without sleep. ‘Mair polis! I want tae know how come yous are wasting your time coming tae my hoose instead o’ finding my daughter.’

  ‘I’m DI Graham and this is DS Daley. We’re from the Serious Crime Squad, Mr McKean.’

  ‘Huh,’ he snorted dismissively. ‘Yous fair love your titles in the cops these days. The last bloke that came tae see us telt me that he was the heid o’ CID at Stewart Street. Didnae look much o’ a detective tae me. Sat there with his mouth gaping the whole time. Looked like a fucking deid fish. Did I no’ say that, Margaret?’ he said, taking a seat in an armchair beside the fire, as his wife handed Daley and Graham two large measures of whisky. ‘Here, I’ll have one o’ them, tae. Make it a big yin.’

  ‘Did you no’ have enough last night?’ his wife asked, clearly not expecting a reply.

  ‘Well, have you got news for us?’ he asked belligerently; then, as though suddenly realising just what the police might have to relate, he changed his manner, crumbling slightly. ‘Take a seat, the pair o’ you,’ he said, pointing at an old leather sofa.

  ‘I just want to know about your daughter’s friends,’ said Graham. ‘I’ll need a list of them. I see you hadn’t met the girl she was going out with on Wednesday. You’ve no idea at all who she was?’

  ‘No. If we had we’d have telt your colleagues. All I know is that her name was Janet.’

  ‘Or Jane,’ added his wife wearily.

  ‘Och, you know young people. Always meeting new friends at that age – at work, or on nights oot . . .’ He fell silent.

  ‘So, you’ve no idea where this friend lived, or worked, for example?’

  ‘Not a clue. The first time I’d heard aboot her was the day afore they went for their night oot. I cannae say I was paying that much attention. It’s no’ as though Anne Marie was a daft wee lassie. She just couldnae settle doon.’

  ‘She was tall,’ said Mrs McKean suddenly.

  ‘Have you mentioned this before, Mrs McKean?’ asked Graham, fishing out his notebook and flicking back a few pages.

  ‘No, I just minded there. Anne Marie telt me she was wearing her highest heels, just so she didnae look like a short arse beside her new mate.’

  ‘And the nightclub was the Palace down near the river, yes?’

  ‘Aye, it was that. But I’ve gied a’ this tae the other polis that came.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. The fact we now know she’s tall is a help. Please try to think of anything else you might not have related to my colleagues.’

  The McKeans looked at each other, sadness reflected in both faces. Their daughter had disappeared from a nightclub in the middle of the week. At the moment in Glasgow, this amounted to an almost certain death sentence.

  Mr McKean shook his head. ‘Nah, I cannae think o’ anythin’ else.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Mrs McKean. ‘Did I mention that the lassie was a student?’

  Graham checked his notes, running his finger down the relevant pages as he read the details of Sanderson’s interview of the pair. ‘No, not that I can see here. How do you know this?’

  ‘The wee yin telt me. She said that she was thinking o’ going tae college herself. You cannae get anywhere wae no qualifications these days, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know which college she attended?’ asked Daley, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘No. Well, it was in the toon centre somewhere. I mind she got the train intae Queen Street every morning, so it stands tae reason the college was in the toon.’

  ‘This is very important information, Mrs McKean,’ said Graham. ‘I wan
t you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Aye, what?’

  ‘When we go away, I want you to get some paper and a pen, sit back, try to relax and think hard. You’ve remembered two important pieces of information – you may have more that you haven’t thought of yet. I know it’s a pain, but you’ll be helping us immensely if you can conjure up anything more.’

  ‘Aye, I will. I’ll do it the minute you’re away.’ A spark of hope appeared in her eyes, replacing the hollow stare she had worn on their arrival.

  ‘Dae you think this will help you find her?’ asked Mr McKean.

  ‘In this job, the smallest piece of information can make a huge difference.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour, Inspector?’ asked Mrs McKean, a sudden passion in her voice.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Bring my wee lassie hame.’

  The twittering of budgies filled the small room.

  Machrie, the present

  The large group of police officers in the golf club car park climbed into various vans, cars and people carriers. The wind was still strong though the rain had mercifully abated – at least for the time being.

  Her uniform-issue fleece zipped up over her mouth, Chief Superintendent Symington shivered as she climbed into the front of the van beside DS Brian Scott, also dressed for the weather, his form bulked out by a flak jacket. Behind them, fifteen police officers laughed and joked as they readied themselves to take one of the routes up into the hills above Machrie.

  The beam from Rathlin island lighthouse light flashed across a dark stretch of the restless sea from its perch on the very edge of Northern Ireland. The brightness of its sweeping light only served to highlight the paucity of the steel-grey dawn breaking weakly from the east.

  Scott shivered as he looked at the dark Atlantic. ‘You’d think that at my time o’ life I’d be given a pass when it comes tae this type o’ nonsense,’ he moaned.

  ‘Try and stay up-beat, DS Scott,’ replied Symington. ‘You’re the man with the local knowledge here. Plus, you were the one who chased them into the hills last night.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so.’

  ‘And you’re my right-hand man.’

  ‘What aboot Inspector Blake fae the Tactical Firearms Unit? He ranks above me.’

  ‘He has his hands full positioning his men as we move the search forward – doing his thing. You’re on the operational side with me.’

  ‘While oor Jimmy’s reclining in that glass box o’ his, enjoying the central heating and the coffee.’

  ‘He has a meeting with the ACC and Speirs later this morning. I’m sure he’d rather be here with us – despite the bloody weather,’ she said, a stiff gust rocking the vehicle as they made their way through the village.

  ‘I cannae understand this bloody Speirs, ma’am. He was bugger a’ use when he was in the polis. Now he’s a civvy and he’s still heading up an inquiry? Wouldnae have happened in the good old days. The very worst man tae pair up wae Jimmy – I can tell you that without fear or favour.’

  Symington sighed. ‘It’s a new approach, Brian. We can give cold cases to retired detectives with experience, freeing up serving officers to deal with the here and now. The way things were, officers – like yourself when you hand in your warrant card – ended up as store detectives, or working part time on building sites on security. It’s a waste, especially with all the training and experience that’s been invested in them.’

  ‘But this isnae a cauld case, ma’am,’ Scott persisted. ‘As soon as it turned back intae a live inquiry your man should have been sent back tae Glasgow tae find some other ghosts tae resurrect. Dae you know how much history he’s got wae the big man?’

  Symington looked out of the window, deep in thought. She was constantly surprised by the small world of Scottish policing. Despite now being part of the wider Police Scotland, she was regularly involved with officers under her charge who knew their opposite numbers in Edinburgh, Aberdeen, or even further afield. And, it seemed, almost inevitably, there was always some kind of history. In her experience in the Met, while you might have heard of members of the new team, you rarely knew them.

  She supposed that since Scottish police trainees all attended the same college there were bound to be connections. Mercifully, though, the type of enmity that existed between Daley and Speirs was a rare occurrence.

  ‘Two miles o’ this!’ exclaimed Scott as the van jolted off down a rough forestry path. There were five main access points on to the hill. This one would lead them to a point closest to where Scott had spotted the light only a short time before.

  ‘Well, I think we can be pretty sure they’re still up there. We sealed off all the ways out and there’s been no sign.’

  ‘Ach, they could just have made a run for it across the fields. Scale a few barbed wire fences and Bob’s your uncle. If you’re prepared tae take pot shots at folk in the dark, ripping your troosers on a fence or two is no’ going tae gie you a problem. They’re likely halfway tae Peru by this time.’

  ‘Peru?’

  ‘I can never say Venezuela, ma’am.’ He winked.

  ‘Anyway, if that’s true, what light did you see?’

  ‘You don’t know the folk here. They’re forever cloaking aboot the countryside. Do you know that there’s a whole bunch of guys here who get a big carry-oot of beer and whisky and wander across the hills until they get tae some auld shepherd’s hut or something, light a fire and get pissed a’ weekend. Wife an’ the weans sat at hame, mark you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not unusual, Brian. Where I come from they call it golf,’ replied Symington drily.

  ‘It’s a’ the fun o’ the fair roon here, let me tell you.’ He stared out as the view of the sea disappeared. ‘And I know fine I’ll end up in a boat before much longer.’ He paused. ‘Shit, my lovely wife’s arriving today!’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sure they’ll make her comfortable back at the office if you’re still out on the hill.’

  As Scott pondered the arrival of his significant other, the van bumped and jolted until they slowed into a clearing – no more than a vehicle turning point – amid a coppice of tightly spaced fir trees.

  ‘Ah, this is our embarkation point,’ announced Symington. ‘Everybody out!’

  As they stepped out into the cold grey dawn, a spray of rain that quickly turned into a downpour began to drench the search party of police officers. They all struggled into the hooded plastic bags that were grandly entitled ‘emergency rainwear’.

  ‘Happy days,’ opined Scott as the rain thudded off Symington’s cap.

  Daley was drinking yet another coffee when his mobile rang. He’d managed to snooze in his reclining office chair for an hour or so, but this rest had done little to banish his fatigue.

  He squinted at the screen. ‘No way,’ he said to himself when he saw Liz’s name emblazoned across it. He declined the call and switched on his computer. Colin Galt’s face appeared on the monitor, though looking much younger than the man Daley knew. A youth with dark curls stared out at him, an image taken from an old Paisley College of Technology matriculation card. As it turned out, Galt had attended this institution prior to moving to Strathclyde University around the time women began to go missing midweek from Glasgow nightclubs.

  As Daley studied the features, he tried to place himself in the young Galt’s shoes. He’d been brought up well, at the heart of a decent family. It transpired that his father had very worked hard to build up the business Colin now ran. Despite its small size, the company back then was still profitable. Colin and his sister had had a rather privileged childhood when compared with their peers in Kinloch. Foreign holidays, junior membership of the local tennis and golf clubs, private tutors – all of this spilled off the screen as Daley read the background report compiled by one of his detectives.

  There was little that pointed to a young man with the capacity to murder women; but then again, there rarely was. Daley matched up what was known of Galt’s movements to the dates and
times the nine women had disappeared.

  Suddenly, as he scrolled down this list of information, a photograph appeared. It was the same young Galt, dressed in a gaudy orange tracksuit top, typical of its time. He was standing beside a striking-looking young woman. Both were giving a thumbs-up to the camera. She had light-coloured hair, and although she was wearing large round sunglasses, Daley found something about her very familiar.

  The scene behind was that of a seafront – not Kinloch, but definitely Scotland, Daley thought, as he looked at cars and passers-by, inadvertently frozen in the image.

  He called the mobile belonging to DC Martin, the young detective who was working on Galt’s profile.

  ‘Aye, what’s up?’ said a tired voice.

  ‘DC Martin, it’s DCI Daley.’

  ‘Oh . . . oh, sorry, sir. I’m just at home catching a couple of hours’ sleep.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’m looking at the Galt file.’

  ‘Yes?’ The voice on the other end of the line was wary, the young man no doubt concerned he’d made a mistake.

  ‘The image of him with a woman in sunglasses?’

  There was a pause while Martin desperately searched his newly alert memory. ‘That one’s from Galt’s house, sir. It was loose in a drawer. We found it last night, after he’d been shot.’

  ‘You have no idea who she is? I mean, there was nothing on the back of the image to identify her? I’m thinking of a name written on the back of a photo, or something like that.’

  ‘No, sir. If there had been, I’d have noted it down. There were a lot of photos, but mainly more recent ones. Mostly Galt and his wife and kids. I wasn’t sure you’d be very interested in them, sir. This one just jumped out.’

  ‘And do you have any idea where it was taken?’

  ‘I’d have to take another look, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Martin. If you feel up to it, I’d like you back in as soon as possible.’

  Daley ended the call and looked back at the image that now filled his screen. From memory, Galt was above average height, perhaps five feet ten or eleven. In the photograph, the girl beside him looked around the same size.