The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Eh? Why, Jimmy?’

  ‘Don’t give me the daft laddie routine. Half of Kinloch thinks you’ve been involved with our friendly host.’

  ‘Aye, well, half o’ Kinloch are wrong.’

  As Annie waved across at them, Daley watched Scott drain his glass of ginger beer, his face a picture of innocence. The detective wondered if he would ever be able to stop worrying about his old friend and his uncanny knack of attracting trouble. It had been happening ever since he’d known him: Daley wasn’t convinced his recently found sobriety had altered his propensity for making mistakes.

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley rushed out of the nightclub. The street was a scene of confusion, with the lights and sirens of police vehicles arriving to attend the fight within. Meanwhile, detectives in his squad rushed to and fro under the orange glow of the street lights, their gleam reflected in the silver Clyde just across the street.

  ‘All stations, do we have anything? Yes, DS Speirs, go ahead, over,’ said Daley over the crackle of the radio and the din surrounding him.

  ‘She’s with me. Perfectly safe, but pissed as a rat.’

  ‘What’s your position, over?’

  ‘Turn round, son.’

  Daley did as he was asked. Standing under a tall lamppost was Speirs, holding up the bedraggled figure of WPC Maggie Baird.

  ‘But she hardly had anything to drink in there.’

  ‘How would you know? Probably too busy with your boyfriend tae watch the CCTV.’ Two DCs smirked as Speirs gestured to them to relieve him of the drunk policewoman.

  As they grabbed her and walked her to an unmarked police car, Daley stepped forward almost toe to toe with Speirs.

  ‘What’s this? If you’re after a kiss you picked the wrong guy. Get back to your ain man,’ said Speirs, in a taunting voice. Before he uttered another word, Daley drew his head back and in a flash head-butted him, sending him falling to the ground.

  ‘Oh dear, son.’ Speirs was holding his nose in an effort to stem the flow of blood. ‘Oh deary, deary me. I think your stellar career has just hit the buffers.’

  ‘Where’s the woman who was with Maggie in the club?’

  ‘How should I know? I was too busy rescuing a colleague tae do your job as well.’

  Daley glared at him for a moment, and walked away.

  The woman moved briskly but unhurriedly along Clyde Street, looking round cautiously before striding round the corner into a dark, dank lane. Distantly, in the shadows, she made out the figure of a fat man bent over spewing a surfeit of alcohol into the gutter.

  With one hand, she pulled off her curly ginger wig and shook down her long dark hair. She stuffed her cheap coat into a skip across the lane, covering it with some of the builders’ debris it contained. Checking the man was still oblivious of what was going on, she took a few deep breaths and stepped back out into Glasgow’s bright lights, disappearing into a crowd of revellers in her yellow dress, and heading for the nearest taxi rank.

  Kinloch, the present

  ‘I cannae believe you’re so taken wae this place,’ said Ella, taking in the run-down hotel room her husband called home when he wasn’t with her in his real domicile in Kirkintilloch. ‘They net curtains look as though they’ve been up since the war.’

  ‘Likely they have,’ replied Scott as he pulled the hooded sweatshirt over his head, discarding it on the floor beside the small double bed they were sharing. ‘It’s no’ the Ritz, honey, but they’re a friendly bunch – make you feel at home, you know?’

  Ella raised her eyebrow and laughed ironically. ‘I’m right sure thon hussy behind the bar makes you feel mair than welcome.’

  ‘Come on, Ella, I thought yous were getting on like a hoose on fire.’

  ‘Aye, typical man; no’ a clue aboot the world and how it spins.’

  ‘You’re right there. What passes for the way you understand things and the way I do are totally different.’

  ‘And big Jimmy, tae. Look at the state o’ him.’

  ‘Eh? You said he just looked like he was working too hard.’

  ‘Well, I wisnae going tae declare Oh for fuck’s sake, you look like you’re aboot tae keel over at any minute, am I? Think aboot it, man.’

  ‘He just looks the same tae me.’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes o’er here,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Thon detective wae the hat. Mind me an’ you used tae watch it on the telly? Before . . .’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before you started capering up an’ doon the road here. It’s like being a widow.’

  ‘Och, not at all. You’d be much better off for a start. You’d get a great pension – especially when you consider how long I’ve been in the job.’

  She didn’t reply for a while, then said, ‘That’s kind o’ what I’m getting at.’

  Scott looked at his wife. The flaming red of her hair had faded, but her eyes were just as green. Despite middle age, she hadn’t run to fat, still possessing the same lithe figure he’d lusted after so long ago. But he detected something new. ‘It must be the sea air, cos I swear, since you’ve appeared here, you seem like a different person, Ella. The whole idea o’ you coming doon was so we could have a look for a place tae rent. So you wouldnae feel so alone. That’s what I thought, anyhow.’

  ‘Dae you no’ think it’s time you considered retiring?’ She turned to him, staring him squarely in the face.

  ‘Very good . . . what would I dae then, mope aboot the hoose? You’ll mind the last time I was confined tae quarters after being shot. Me and you just got under each other’s feet. I got so bored I got well knocked intae the bevvy, tae.’

  ‘But retirement’s different. Anyway, you’re aff the drink – aye, and you’ll stay that way, tae.’ She paused, then kissed him on the cheek. ‘We’ve been lucky, me and you, love. How many times have you survived through situations that could have killed you? You’re still in good health!’

  ‘It’s a wonder the drink never carted me off afore noo, mind you,’ he replied thoughtfully.

  ‘So, think o’ what we could dae. As you say, you’ve got a decent pension; the weans are fine and independent – they don’t need us any mair. We could get a wee villa on one o’ the Costas, or that. Soak up the sun an’ enjoy ourselves while we can. Fuck knows, we’ve earned it.’

  ‘What aboot oor Jimmy?’

  ‘He’s got his ain life tae lead – aye, and he’s no’ making too good a stab at it right noo, if you ask me.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose.’

  ‘Just picture you and me in the sunshine. Maybe you could get a hobby.’

  ‘Like what, basket weaving, or thon ty foo?’

  ‘What on earth is ty foo – tea, dae you mean?’

  ‘Och, you know – when these Chinese hang aboot in parks cloaking aboot in slow motion. Like geriatric karate; I cannae see myself at that kind o’ caper, Ella darling.’

  ‘That’s t’ai chi, you daft bastard.’

  ‘Is that no’ a fruit? Well, it can be ty foo or typhoon – I’m no’ prancing aboot in my jammies making an arse o’ mysel’ in some park, Spain or no Spain!’

  ‘What aboot golf? Great thing tae dae. Gets you oot the hoose, nice walk, exercise.’

  Scott shook his head. ‘You know fine the only time I tried that I missed the ball and it clonked off John Donald’s napper. He always thought I did it on purpose. Me an’ him was nearly at fisticuffs, if you remember. It was that charity day in Troon. You were there!’

  ‘Well, maybe no’ golf,’ she said, images of the day in question flashing through her mind. ‘We could start up a wee business, or something.’

  ‘I could be a private detective,’ he said, snorting with derision.

  ‘Naw, I wisnae meaning that. You’ve done plenty detection. Something different. What aboot buying a wee pub, for instance? They punters still love a drink in the pub o’er there – no’ like here wae folk stuck in the hoose drinking supermarket boo
ze. The sun brings them oot – gies them a right drooth, tae.’

  ‘Great idea!’ he said, sitting up in bed.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. I can just see it noo. You behind the bar chatting up some good-lookin’ Spanish waiter half your age, while I’m lying in my ain vomit, seeing pixies at the bottom o’ the bed. Dae you really think the life o’ a publican’s for me?’

  ‘Right enough . . . maybe no’ a pub.’

  He plumped his pillows and turned over, his back to his wife. ‘You wait, this place’ll grow on you – you’ll see. You’ll get a proper look aboot the morrow.’

  ‘Aye, well, night night, Brian.’

  He was already snoring as she turned to switch off the bedside light. ‘No night o’ passion for me then,’ she said quietly to herself with a sigh.

  34

  Marion Smyth-Browne’s complexion was white against the light blue hospital pillow. Her dark hair was streaked with flecks of grey, brown eyes hollow in their sockets, her high cheekbones exaggerated by her drawn face.

  When Chief Superintendent Symington began to speak, she turned her head slowly to face her interlocutor.

  ‘How’s Bernie? Please tell me he’s not dead,’ she said, gazing desperately at Symington.

  ‘No, he’s not dead, Ms Smyth-Browne, but no thanks to your actions. You’ve both been really stupid. I’ll reiterate what my constable said to you. You really must retain the services of a lawyer.’

  ‘Why? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘You sound very sure.’

  The archaeologist made to speak, but remained silent, clearly considering her reply. Then, after a few moments, she said, ‘I really don’t know what you mean.’

  Having cautioned her, Symington pulled up a chair, seating herself as close to the bedside as possible. ‘Come on, Marion, we know what you’ve been up to. You and Bernie have been helping Colin Galt plunder archaeological artefacts in order to sell them on the black market.’

  ‘No!’ She tried to raise her head from the bed, but grimaced in pain, letting her head flop back on to the pillow. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is complete nonsense.’

  ‘I have a little theory, Marion.’

  ‘Oh, do you now? How interesting.’

  ‘I ask myself what connects you and Bernard to Colin Galt – apart from your clandestine archaeology, that is.’

  ‘I’m not up to listening to some second-rate Agatha Christie impersonation.’

  ‘Since you’ve nothing better to do, please indulge me.’

  Smyth-Browne waved her hand dismissively. ‘I’m in no position to stop you, so if you must, say what you like. You’ll get nothing in response from me.’

  ‘I think that you and our friend and local entrepreneur Galt have been having a fling.’ Symington studied Smyth-Browne’s pale face, seeing not a flicker of emotion. ‘Now, your Bernie, being a rather switched-on, possessive type of chap, cottoned on to this. In short, he was less than chuffed, to say the least.’ Again, no response. Symington stood up, placing her braided cap back on her head. ‘Of course, if Galt survives – which is far from guaranteed – you can rest assured that we’ll pose similar questions to him. From what I hear, he doesn’t appear to have your cool resolve, Marion.’

  This time the response was different. Despite her aches and pains, Marion shot up in bed and stared intently at the police officer. ‘You have to tell me what condition he’s in. I demand . . .’

  ‘Now, there’s a thing; great concern for a man that you don’t know intimately. Though I do mean what I say. As far as I know, he’s struggling for his life in Glasgow.’ She paused. ‘Don’t you think it’s time to tell the truth?’

  ‘I’ve told you all I’m going to. Now, I’ve changed my mind. Until I have legal representation, please don’t bother me again.’ She lay back on the bed, turning her head away from the police officer.

  ‘Fair enough. That is, of course, your right.’ Symington picked up the chair and placed it back against the wall where she had found it. She walked to the door of the hospital side room and opened it, ready to leave.

  She hesitated, turning to face the woman in the hospital bed. ‘One more thing, Marion. When my detectives discovered Colin’s little stash . . . I’m sure you know where I mean; even Bernie worked that out, as he visited the cottage doubtless on some flimsy pretext to find out what was going on . . . but I digress; when we found the stash, among all that precious Viking jewellery was a more modern piece – much more modern.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Well, it turns out to have belonged to one of the unfortunate women whose remains were discovered at the site at Kilmilken hill.’ She smiled. ‘Let me be entirely frank: when you are charged – and you will be charged – it won’t be merely for theft. You’ll be charged as an accomplice to murder. At the very least.’

  Smyth-Browne turned to her, unable to keep the look of shock from her face.

  ‘So I think you’re right, Marion. Seek out the services of a legal representative as soon as you can – I promise you, you’ll need them.’

  Before Marion could reply, Chief Superintendent Symington swept out of the room.

  Glasgow, 1994

  DI Graham sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers on a blotting pad. His face was red with anger, a pulsing vein plainly showing on his neck. Before him stood Daley and Speirs, both looking grim.

  ‘So, this is it! All we have to show from our operation at the nightclub is a WPC in hospital after being poisoned, plus very brief, poor quality CCTV footage of the woman who could very well be the accomplice we’ve been looking for.’ He paused to reach for a packet of cigarettes. Remembering HQ was now a smoke-free zone, he threw the packet down in frustration. ‘As you know, I will have to answer to the top floor. And let me tell you, the bosses are pissed off, to say the least. I’ve read your reports – now tell me the bloody truth!’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ said Speirs, ‘this is what happens when inexperienced officers are left in charge of an operation like this – stands tae reason. I mean, who the fuck would monitor the situation on the club’s CCTV system and no’ make sure it was all being recorded.’ He shook his head, a sarcastic smile on his face, a large plaster across the bridge of his nose and bruising to both eyes testament to Daley’s head butt.

  ‘I was told that the recording equipment was in order and working properly. As you know, sir, it stopped shortly after WPC Baird was in position – mysteriously,’ he added, pointedly looking at Speirs.

  ‘You’re a cheeky bastard,’ said Speirs, his voice raised. ‘I hope you’re not going to let comments like that go, sir. Bad enough I was assaulted by an acting DS at the locus in front of the public in the middle of the street. Now, if the papers were tae get hold o’ that . . .’

  ‘Shut up, the pair of you! I’m well aware what passed between you and DS Daley, Bobby. I also know what was said prior to the fracas. I had hoped a man of your experience would have behaved in a more professional manner – regardless of your opinion of DS Daley. Be certain of this: upstairs won’t care that you’ve got a sore nose – or what insults were directed at you, Daley, perceived or otherwise. They are however, I assure you, greatly concerned about the loss of a suspect who could have brought this bloody Midweek Murderer to justice!’

  Speirs snorted with derision, while Daley looked as though he was about to add to what he had to say, but then thought better of it and remained silent.

  ‘Make no mistake, gentlemen, your careers are at stake here. I’ll do my best. But the very fact that one of our female officers, vulnerable, working under cover, was slipped a Mickey and placed in obvious danger, is of huge concern. So, if any of this appears in the papers – from whatever source,’ he added, staring at Speirs, ‘the person who leaks it can rest assured that they will also see their name in print, with a P45 in the post.’

  ‘What now, sir?’ asked Daley, expecting the worst.

&nb
sp; ‘What happens now is that you and the team pore through any evidence this Alison woman may have left behind. I know the glasses she was drinking from were washed and the table cleaned while you were busy trying to find Maggie, so we have no obvious prints. But I want everyone who was in that nightclub interviewed, and every scintilla of evidence examined with a fine toothcomb. I include CCTV evidence from street cameras – anything that might help.’

  ‘Aye, get yourself in front o’ a screen wae that mate of yours, son. See if you can find out where she went.’

  ‘I’m more interested in how she went,’ replied Daley, his fists balled at his sides. ‘I mean, we have a witness who spotted them leaving the club, our suspect supporting WPC Baird as they left.’

  ‘What are you saying, son? Come on, out wae it!’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious. When you “rescued” Maggie, where was this Alison?’

  ‘You bastard!’ shouted Speirs, making for Daley.

  ‘Enough!’ shouted DI Graham. ‘DS Speirs, get out and put people on the CCTV trail – if there proves to be one. Then go to the locus yourself; get a hold of the taxi drivers who were working that night – anyone who could have seen her. I want her found.’

  ‘But, sir . . .’

  ‘Now, DS Speirs! Daley, you stay here for the moment.’

  The two men watched Speirs march out of the room.

  ‘Take a seat, DS Daley.’ Graham’s tone had moderated.

  ‘First car back to Stewart Street, and pick up my uniform on the way. I think that’s what you’re about to say, sir.’

  ‘Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind, young man.’ Graham passed his hand over his bald head, sighing deeply. ‘However, this incident has left me even more troubled. The club’s CCTV recording stopping for no apparent reason, no sign of this Alison character leaving with Maggie, despite the presence of officers placed around the building. Let me make it clear, Jim. I’m very unhappy at the way you conducted yourself last night. I will not condone fights between my officers in the street, regardless of the circumstances.’