The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  He slammed the glass down on the table and reached for the bottle.

  He paused. Despite his best efforts, the whisky had heightened the dark shadows of his temper. He could see the lifeless body of his mentor and friend Ian Burns lying on the rough grass under the big hill, as the ravens cawed and tumbled above the trees. He could see the flecks of spittle flying from Sanderson’s gaping mouth as he berated him. And he saw the letter Ian had written to him – the face of his grieving, devastated widow as she solemnly handed the envelope over. He thought of the life they could have had together – deserved to have – now Burns had come to the end of his dedicated and distinguished career of public service.

  He pictured Speirs’s condescending sneer. He suspected more than one man on the team had aided the suspect Alison in her escape, but thanks to Maggie Baird he had no doubt who was at the root of it.

  Speirs – and whomever he was working with – had let one of the main suspects in the Midweek Murder case disappear into thin air. This act alone would condemn more innocent women to suffer and die, see more children lose a mother.

  He remembered Ian Burns’s suspicions. Speirs fitted his theory on every level.

  Pushing the whisky glass away, Daley walked into the hall, removed his car keys from the table, and closed the door behind him.

  Bobby Speirs was watching a comedy show on the television in his lounge in Milngavie, tomato sauce from his spaghetti bolognese dripping down his chin.

  His wife sighed, but said nothing. Both of them had come from poor backgrounds in the worst parts of Glasgow. Now here they were in their detached bungalow in one of its more leafy suburbs.

  A sharp knock on the door made Speirs turn round. ‘Who the hell is that at this time o’ night?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and see who it is, honey?’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  He cursed as he struggled to put the tray of food safely on the coffee table in front of him, an action made difficult by the collection of his wife’s magazines liberally scattered atop it.

  As he walked down the short hallway, another knock sounded at the door, louder this time. Frantic, even.

  Bobby Speirs had been a policeman for a long time, and had made his fair share of enemies. He reached into the umbrella stand and hefted the iron poker he kept there unseen, just in case someone he’d locked up, cheated or mistreated decided to look him up. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  The voice behind the door was muffled, but he could make out the words. ‘Wait a minute,’ he replied, placing the poker back in its hiding place, confident this visitor posed no threat.

  He removed the chain then unlocked the door, opening it wide. ‘Right, if you’re here for a dram and a wee catch-up, you can forget it. I reserve my whisky for my friends, and you’re no’ one of them.’

  ‘I want answers, and I want them now,’ said the tall young man on his doorstep. ‘No hiding behind the bosses, or your greasy pals back at the office – just you and me, man to man, that’s all I want.’

  Speirs took a step forward, taking him out of the bright warmth of his hallway on to the top step at his front door, enabling him to stare directly into the eyes of his visitor, who stood on the step below. ‘You know what you can do, Jimmy Daley? Sleep off your Dutch courage – I can smell the whisky on your breath, son – and fuck off.’

  The pair stood stock-still for a few moments, their eyes locked.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked Mrs Speirs, poking her head round the lounge door. ‘I thought I heard shouting.’

  ‘Och, just one of the young boys I work with has had one too many. Just go back and finish your dinner, dear.’

  Mumbling something about what an inconsiderate time it was to call, she did as she was bid and disappeared.

  ‘Okay, I hope we’re straight here, son. We’ve all done it – had too much o’ the bevvy then thought we would put the world tae rights. Just you get back home tae that pretty wife o’ yours. We’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘I want you to know that I know you let Alison go on purpose the other night.’

  ‘Like I said, son, for your own sake, get back home to your wife.’

  ‘I also want you to know that I suspect you have something to do with the death of Ian Burns.’

  The older man laughed. ‘All this shite about me going round in your big stupid heid, when what you really should be thinking to yourself is who’s shagging that tart o’ a wife of mine?’

  Before Speirs could move, Daley launched a fist into his stomach, making his colleague double up in pain.

  ‘You stupid bastard, Daley! You can’t leave anything alone,’ Speirs gasped.

  An uppercut caught him on the chin, sending him flying backwards into his hallway. Daley landed on top of him and caught him by the throat. ‘What did you say?’ he roared, squeezing Speirs’s neck, making the other man’s face turn crimson, the mocking look in his eyes now replaced by one of genuine fear.

  ‘Can I have the police, please?’ said Mrs Speirs into the phone in the lounge as quietly as she dared. Her hand holding the receiver was trembling. ‘My husband – he’s a police sergeant – is being attacked on our doorstep, and I don’t know what to do.’

  By the time the blue lights flashed behind him, Daley was on the main road back to his home in Renfrewshire. The police car overtook, signalling him to stop.

  Calmly, Daley pulled up behind the marked car. He watched as two uniformed officers left the vehicle, adjusting their hats as they approached him.

  ‘Can I help you, gents?’

  ‘Acting DS Daley?’ said the older of the two.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Please step out of the car, Sergeant. I’m afraid we’re here to place you under arrest.’

  In minutes, Acting Detective Sergeant James Daley of the Serious Crime Squad had been cautioned and charged and was on his way back to Glasgow, his crime: assaulting a fellow police officer.

  The arresting officers, seeing him as an unlikely absconder, had dispensed with the obligatory handcuffs, and were chatting with their prisoner.

  ‘Any chance I can give my wife a call? She’s on a night out, but I know where she is. She’ll worry if I’m not there when she gets home.’

  The older cop turned round to face him from the front passenger seat. ‘Aye, son, nae bother. But if I were you I’d be on the phone to Beltrami.’

  The mention of Glasgow’s most famous defence counsel saw Daley smile wryly. The cry of ‘Get me Beltrami’ was familiar to every police officer who’d made an arrest for serious crime in the city. He was well known for extricating serious criminals from what had been considered impossible legal predicaments.

  Now that the fury had gone, Jim Daley knew he was in deep, deep trouble. Maybe he really would require the services of someone like Joseph Beltrami.

  Kinloch, the present

  The house had three bedrooms and stood beside some playing fields and a row of pensioners’ cottages. On a rise about two hundred yards away, under a heather-clad hill, sprawled one of what had been Kinloch’s two council schemes. Very few of these houses belonged to the council now, having been purchased by their occupants, or sold on, as was reflected by the wide assortment of colours adorning brickwork, doors and windows.

  Ella Scott ran her finger across a worktop in the kitchen, examining the result with a shake of her head. ‘It needs a bloody good clean.’

  ‘Aye, well, obviously, dear. It’s been lying empty for a good while now. A wee inspector called MacLeod lived here.’

  ‘What happened tae him?’

  ‘Oh, turned out he was a bad lot. It was him that Jimmy replaced,’ replied Scott, vaguely. He had no wish to go into the sordid details regarding the wretched MacLeod.

  ‘An inspector’s house – pity you don’t have the pips tae go wae it, Brian.’

  ‘You know me, Ella. That’s no’ about tae happen.’

  ‘I know fine – in fact I’ve know
n it for a long time. Fae the start, probably.’

  ‘Did anyone tell you you’re getting right cyclical in your auld age?’

  Well used to her husband’s tussles with the dictionary, she smiled. ‘You mean cynical, Brian. Anyhow, I didnae marry you so I could tell my fancy friends you were the chief constable.’

  ‘Just as well,’ murmured Scott.

  Suddenly there was a scream from the hall. The Scotts’ footsteps echoed in the empty house as they ran to find out what was going on.

  James Daley junior was yelling at the top of his voice, pointing at a corner of the ceiling. Ella picked him up to reassure him. ‘There, Jamie, son, it’s just a spider. It’ll no’ do you any harm.’

  ‘Unless it’s one o’ they tarantulas.’ Scott made spider legs from his fingers, wriggling them in the air, making the toddler bawl even more vociferously.

  ‘Spiders are bad,’ he spluttered through his tears.

  ‘There, son, just you ignore your Uncle Brian. He’s no’ got the brains he was born wae – aye, and that was precious few in the first place.’ Ella glared at her husband. ‘You’d think you’d never had weans o’ your own – frightening the boy like that.’

  ‘Och, he’s spent too much time wae his mother. He needs toughening up. When I was his age I was acting as a lookout in case the tallyman came roond.’

  ‘And a lot o’ good that did you. I’m here tae bet this wee yin won’t be spying on any tallyman. Though I’m no’ sure where Jimmy’s going tae get the time tae watch him. Aye, and if he’d know what to do wae him if he had.’

  Mollified, James Daley indicated that he wished to be set back on his feet and began to run – somewhat unsteadily – up and down the hall, giggling to himself. All the same, he was careful to keep a leery eye on the spider’s movements as he did so.

  ‘Poor wee boy,’ said Ella. ‘We might no’ have had much tae gie oor weans, but at least we were together. He doesnae know what growing up wae a mummy and daddy is a’ aboot.’

  ‘No’ likely to, neither. If she’s got a new man, they’ll never get back together.’

  ‘I just wish Jimmy could find a decent women. I’m telling you, I see a change in him. And not a change for the better, that’s for sure.’

  ‘We all get aulder, dear.’

  ‘So we do. But he looks ill. At least she always kept him fed and curtailed his boozing. Do you know who he reminded me o’ when I saw him last night?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You! No’ eating properly, drinking far too much. He’s at a bad age, tae. Men drop like flies at that time o’ their lives. Especially wae the sort o’ stress he’s constantly under. Some of his own making, tae.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on him, Ella.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s fine – nothing tae worry about, then,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘Enough aboot Jimmy. What aboot the hoose?’

  She looked around. ‘It’s far too big, for a start. And like I said, it fair needs a good tidy up and a lick o’ paint.’

  ‘They’ll dae that before we move in.’

  ‘And we keep the hoose in Kirkie? I’m no’ consigning myself tae the sticks for the duration.’

  ‘Aye, of course. We can let it oot. Oor hoose is damn near paid for, and the rent on this is peppercorn. It’s one o’ the last auld-fashioned police hooses left, you know.’

  ‘Well, it’s going to the right man, for you’re one o’ the last auld-fashioned policemen.’

  ‘So is that a yes?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll gie it a trial. I choose the colour scheme, mind.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me, Ella. It’s a deal.’

  Though Brian Scott had enjoyed the conviviality of the County Hotel, now he’d stopped drinking its appeal had waned. And like most men of his age, he needed his life-long companion with him. He missed his warm cosy house and bed when he was alone in a tatty hotel room.

  And yes, he’d grown to like the beauty of Kinloch and the warmth and humour of the people, if not its wide variety of sailing craft.

  He smiled benignly at his wife, now consoling James Daley junior a second time after a stumble in the hall.

  He’d never really taken to Kirkintilloch, preferring his old haunts in Glasgow.

  Life was good. Then his mobile rang.

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley paced around the holding cell in Pitt Street, Strathclyde’s force HQ. Though his mind was in a tumult, he felt he’d done the right thing. He knew how the police worked. Officers like Speirs disgusted him, yet worked with impunity, settling old scores, or covering for their mates – or, if what he suspected was true, murdering.

  Now, though he’d done himself untold damage, there would be a proper hearing. He’d plead not guilty and bring his assault of Speirs to trial, that way drawing shining light into the darkest recesses of the world he was trying to expose. It could prove a massive sacrifice, though.

  The old iron cell door swung open, and instead of the solicitor he was expecting, there stood DI John Donald, tanned face, expensive suit, slicked-back hair, the works. Any last vestige of his former uncouth demeanour appeared entirely banished – almost.

  ‘I don’t want to speak to you,’ said Daley immediately. ‘In any case, I’ve no legal representative, so you can’t question me.’ He sat on the cell’s hard bed and folded his arms defensively.

  ‘Come on, Jim. I’m not here to question you. They only gave me access to you as a favour – you know, old friend and colleague, come to lend support in time of need, and all that jazz.’

  ‘Old friend, my arse! Just do us both a favour and get out.’

  ‘That’s not very friendly,’ said Donald, standing before him. Daley could smell his expensive aftershave in the dank cell. ‘I’m here to see if you want anything. What about your wife – does she know yet?’

  ‘Leave her out of this.’

  ‘I know you’ve tried to call her. With no success, I hear.’

  ‘I’ll get her soon enough.’

  ‘Och, no. Only fair that I help you out, my old friend. Make up for all those hours you and me spent on the beat up in the Townhead. The good old days, Jimmy boy. At least they must seem quite good now – in comparison with your current predicament, I mean.’

  ‘Leave my wife out of it!’

  ‘The bosses are anxious we contact her – put your mind at rest. You’ll have a lot to think about in the next few weeks – years, even.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t think you’ll get bail, Jim. I’ll see to that. No, you’ll go to a hearing tomorrow and end up in custody in Barlinnie. They love wayward cops up there. You’ll meet a few old friends, I don’t doubt – bound to meet some of Brian’s.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Same old Jimmy Daley; never knows when it’s time to shut up.’ He smiled sickeningly. ‘Make no mistake, there’s no knight in shining armour like your old hero Ian Burns coming to your rescue this time. Basically, and I think this is the correct legal terminology, you’re fucked, my boy.’

  ‘Like I said, just go. I’m going to inform my brief about this little visit.’

  ‘I’m trembling at the thought. I mean, your star is so bright at the moment. Who’s going to believe me?’

  ‘Believe what?’

  Donald’s grin grew even wider. ‘This,’ he said, and ran to the door and started hammering on it. ‘Quick, let me out, Constable. This is assault, Daley!’ he shouted, messing up his hair, as a key turned in the lock. Just before the door was flung open, Donald dashed his head against the cell’s brick wall and sank to his knees, mewling in pain.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked the custody officer, a bewildered look on his face.

  ‘Bugger went mad,’ said Donald, reaching his hand out in order to be helped to his feet. A red lump was already appearing on his forehead, accompanied by a trickle of blood. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, there’s nothing I can do to help you now, son.’

  As he was helped from the cell by the custody
officer, behind his back he turned back to face the prisoner and mouthed You’re fucked.

  The heavy cell door slammed shut, loudly marking a full stop not just to Daley’s career, but more than likely to his freedom.

  40

  Kinloch, the present

  Daley was doing what had become a habit since his arrival in Kinloch – taking a walk.

  As he wandered past the second pier and stepped on to the path that meandered round the south side of the loch, he took deep breaths of the invigorating sea air. The wind had died down and patches of blue could be seen between the clouds, reflected in the calm waters of the loch.

  An old man stumbled towards him, clearly the worse for drink. ‘How ye, big man,’ he slurred, then carried on his rather unsteady way.

  Who’s worse off, Daley wondered. At first glance, here was the chief inspector of police, with a nice house, a good salary and a more than decent pension to look forward to, well met by one of the town’s drunks, unkempt, addicted and probably with little more than two pennies to rub together. Yet, of the pair, who was more content?

  A seal popped its head above the water with a plop, regarding Daley with apparent interest. It suddenly dawned on him that he should have contacted Hamish and arranged to take his son for a walk. He was at a loss as to what he was going to do with his only child while Liz was away. Hamish could barely cope, and he didn’t want his offspring spending much of the next three weeks in the bar of the County Hotel.

  He wondered about the man Liz had met. Was it someone new, or a mutual friend? Though her letter indicated the former, in his mind’s eye the vision of his hated brother-in-law Mark Henderson appeared unbidden.

  During these walks he always tried to get his mind back into gear; to refresh what was going on in both his life and the job. Sometimes this worked better than others. On this occasion, he was surprised to find that his thoughts kept drifting back to Liz.

  He’d barely thought of her in the few months since the death of Mary Dunn, yet here he was, that old feeling of jealousy simmering in the pit of his stomach.