The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  Greenock, 1994

  The boy sat in the café, sucking at his Coke through a striped straw.

  Daley observed him. The lad’s grandmother was fussing around him, her face tear-stained, while the grandfather sat across the table, showing no emotion, though it was obvious that he was finding it difficult to maintain the stereotypical façade expected of males from the west of Scotland when faced with personal tragedy.

  A young WPC, also sitting at the table, was looking at the little boy with a smile, her hand outstretched, holding his.

  Daley supposed that a seven-year-old couldn’t possibly process the enormity of what he’d just witnessed, hence the lad’s expressionless self-possession. Maybe he was just in shock. The detective attempted to think himself back into his own childhood, trying to imagine how he’d have reacted if he’d seen his mother’s lifeless body washed up on the shore. Despite the effort, he couldn’t conjure up the boy he’d been.

  Across the street and down on to the pier he could see the flash of blue police lights, as a body wrapped in a black bag was carried into a private ambulance on a stretcher. He saw the familiar figure of Brian Scott gesticulating to another man he didn’t know, a member of the Greenock CID, he assumed.

  As though he sensed this, the young boy stood up, gazing at the distant vehicles, his eyes wide, but still with no discernible expression on his face.

  ‘Can we go now?’ he said softly.

  ‘But you’ve not finished your drink, Derek,’ said the WPC, looking at him, tears in her eyes.

  ‘Aye, son,’ said his grandmother, grabbing at his sleeve. ‘You sit down. There’s another policeman would like to talk to you. We’re just waiting on him.’

  Without warning, the boy stamped his foot and threw the Coke over the WPC, drenching her. He shrieked at the top of his voice, ‘My mummy’s gone, and now I want to go too!’

  Stirlingshire, 1994

  Ian Burns was halfway down the broad stairway of his house when the phone began to ring.

  His old instincts started to spark. It was only just six-thirty in the morning. Who would be calling at this time of day? He walked to the hall table upon which sat the cream-coloured phone and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Good morning. Burns,’ he said, then listened for a few moments. ‘Yes, tell him that’s no problem. What time did you say again? Hold on, let me write this down.’ He opened a notebook on the table and scribbled the pen he picked out of a brass holder on a blank page to bring it back to life. ‘Right, twelve thirty. I know the place, just on the main road to Milngavie, not far from the distillery. Tell Jim I’ll meet him there as per his instructions. Where is he, by the way?’ Again, Ian Burns listened for a moment. ‘Ah, yes. Terrible, just terrible. It’s times like this I’m glad to have hung up my spurs. Thank you, Constable.’ He put the phone down and rewrote the note he’d scribbled, to make sure he could read his own writing.

  Jim Daley. The old stile, bottom of Dumgoyne. 12.30 p.m.

  He drew in a deep sigh. He knew why Daley had chosen this meeting place. When the lad had only been a matter of weeks in CID, they had attended that very spot together, where the body of a young man had been found. It was quiet, and though not far from the road quite secluded – clearly why the unfortunate young man had picked the location as the place to cut his wrists.

  He suspected Daley had something delicate to communicate to him about the two anonymous notes he’d received – hence the clandestine approach. He tore the piece of paper he’d written on out of the notebook, folded it and put it into the pocket of his dressing gown.

  Well, he thought, at least today will be different. A change is as good as a rest.

  He shuffled off in his slippers to make his wife a cup of tea and smoke his first cigarette of the day.

  11

  Colin Galt stretched as he woke. He rubbed his eyes and looked round the room. They were still there – his luminous green running shoes sitting boldly on the floor beside the chest of drawers as though they were calling out to him. The Kinloch half marathon was only a day away, and he really wanted to get in a quick 5K run before he had to go to work.

  He staggered off to the shower, ran it as hot as he could bear, then stood under the powerful jet of water. As always, its blast helped him to collect his thoughts ahead of another busy day. He had to phone the accountant to make sure she could meet him the following Monday. He had to find holiday cover for the driver who normally took the delivery van to Glasgow on weekday afternoons. He had to speak to his so-called business partner about new opportunities, away from Kinloch. Expansion – that dreaded word.

  His father’s old partner, whom he’d inherited along with his half of the business, was slow to accept change. Left to Geordie McKay, they would still have one tipper truck, a couple of delivery vans and a digger or two. It was he, Colin Galt, who’d built things up.

  He looked at his watch, then got dressed in an old grey sweatshirt and running pants. With his wife and children off on a short break during the long weekend, he only had his own needs to worry about. He could please himself. He bounded out of his front door, turned left and headed along the rough track that led from his house to the main road.

  It was a beautiful day. He could see the Paps of Jura, hazy in the distance as they shimmered in the warm morning air. He heard the call of gulls soaring high into the blue sky on thermals. He felt strong as he picked up the pace, turning on to the main road. It was quiet at this time of day. Those travelling between Machrie and Kinloch wouldn’t be on the go for another hour or so, by which time he’d be back home getting ready for work.

  A long black shape raced across the road in front of him in a blur. A mink, he realised, slowing down, his heart racing. It was then he heard it, the distant whine of a car making its way towards him on the other side of the rise.

  Glad of the chance of a rest, he stopped on the verge, leaning against an old drystone dyke in order to get his breath back and allow the vehicle room to pass on the narrow road. As it appeared over the hill, though, he frowned, the joy of being out in the fresh air and away from his problems replaced by the sense of impending doom that had been haunting him for weeks. He wasn’t surprised when the battered SUV slowed down.

  ‘You’re very predictable, Colin,’ said the woman in the driver’s seat.

  ‘And you’re very bloody annoying – do you never give up? This has to stop. I can’t take all this sneaking about.’

  ‘Get in!’ She leaned across to the passenger side of the vehicle and swung open the door.

  Galt sighed. ‘This is the last time. You know what’s at stake here, don’t you?’

  She smiled.

  They drove for a few moments, the question left unanswered by his companion as she turned on to a rough track, leading to an abandoned quarry on the far side of a small hill.

  Within moments, she was straddling him on the passenger seat, one arm on the headrest at his back, the other against the car’s roof, thrusting down on him while he searched desperately for her small breasts through the denim shirt she was wearing.

  Roughly, he pulled the garment apart, sending a button spinning into the back seat, searching for her taut nipple with his tongue.

  On top of the rise, hidden from view by a large boulder, stood a silent figure. He stared down at the SUV in the heart of the old quarry, as though framed there by the rough amphitheatre created over decades of work at the site. It rocked to and fro, and even from this distance he could hear the muffled cries of a woman – cries of pleasure.

  A pale palm of a hand was suddenly plastered against the passenger window, leaving a smear as it slid down the steamed-up smoked glass in time to the motion being generated from within the vehicle.

  Having seen enough, the watcher turned, bounded down the rocky slope, jumped on to a quad bike and raced across the rough track in the field until he was out of sight.

  Galt was still breathing heavily when the woman pulled over and left him on the road, only yards
from where she’d picked him up.

  He considered continuing his run, but couldn’t stop his right leg from shaking after his exertions in the SUV.

  He decided to turn back for home, figuring that, in one way or another, he’d had sufficient cardiovascular exercise for the day. At the same time he cursed his lack of willpower. He’d promised himself not to mix business and pleasure again, yet here he was, still panting from their lovemaking, the smell of her strong on his clothes, her dampness making his jogging pants stick to his leg.

  ‘Bastard!’ He swore loudly, sending an unseen creature scurrying through the undergrowth on the verge.

  When Daley awoke, he was surprised to hear a radio playing accordion music in the kitchen. The distinctive aroma of bacon and strong coffee came wafting into his room.

  ‘Bloody hell, Hamish, I’m not used to this.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s only half six!’

  ‘Aye, no time for hanging aboot in my bunk, Mr Daley. Up an’ at ’em, the fish’ll no’ catch themselves, so tae speak – no’ that I’ve got any fish tae catch these days. But you know whoot I mean.’

  Before Daley could reply, the smoke alarm in the hall began to wail, making Hamish burst the yolk of the egg he was turning over in the pan. ‘Whoot on earth . . .’

  Daley reset the alarm and then opened the kitchen windows, setting the extractor fan above the cooker to its highest setting.

  ‘Sorry, Hamish – life in the modern home. I know it must be strange to you.’

  ‘My niece has a’ that carry on, tae. When I go and visit, I jeest wait till she goes oot, then I take a’ the batteries oot o’ these contraptions. I canna be footered wae that nonsense every time you set a pot on the stove. It’s nae wonder every bugger goes on aboot stress these days – it’s as though the hooses have a mind o’ their ain.’ He shook his head as he lifted the skillet of sizzling bacon and eggs off the cooker and began portioning out breakfast on two plates.

  ‘Looks wonderful, Hamish, thank you. But don’t think you have to do this every morning.’

  ‘I’d be up cooking for myself, so why no’ the baith o’ us? Breakfast is the maist important meal o’ the day. I’m sure Mrs Daley always sent you oot wae a good fry-up in the morning.’ He paused for a moment. ‘No’ that I’m prying intae your nuptial occurrences, mark you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Hamish. If I was lucky enough to get breakfast made for me, it was likely to be muesli and a very skinny latte. Liz was always trying her best to reduce my waistline, not expand it.’ For what seemed like the first time in months, he suddenly felt a pang of sadness, missing his wife and young son. He knew he’d ended their marriage when he’d chosen his colleague Mary Dunn over Liz, but he needed to try harder to maintain some kind of relationship, if only for the sake of James Daley junior.

  As though he’d picked up on these melancholy thoughts, Hamish began to shake his head. ‘You canna afford to dwell on it, Mr Daley. No, life has its ain way o’ steering you on the course that wiz plotted for you fae the start. That’s a fact.’

  Bobby Speirs stared out of the window of the small plane as it came in to land at Kinloch. The town seemed to huddle between the hills and the loch, which twinkled far below in the bright sunlight.

  He’d missed being a policeman. Not the actual work – never that – more the camaraderie. Also the position: to retire as a detective inspector was no small achievement, something that made him proud, despite those who were critical of his style and efficacy. Not bad for a lad from the wrong side of the tracks who’d left school at fifteen and joined the police cadets. He knew his father, also a cop, would have been proud.

  And now here he was. Retired for almost five years and he had it all back – well, the closest approximation of being an actual officer.

  One part of this trip he wasn’t looking forward to was his reunion with Jim Daley. He’d almost forgotten about the young DC. Now the memories were flooding back. Too keen, too explosive, and too straight. Daley would turn a blind eye to nothing, he remembered. A sanctimonious prick, he thought – a time bomb, too.

  Then darker thoughts took hold. He quickly banished them.

  He’d heard about Daley’s career as time went on, but their paths hadn’t crossed again. Lucky for him, he thought, draining the last of his bottle of water then running his hand across his bald head.

  As the plane bumped across the tarmac, Speirs’s thoughts drifted to matters in hand. The Midweek Murders, or, as he’d always known them, Grab a Granny. How strange life was, he thought. He of all people was left to resurrect a case that had caused him so much worry so many years ago. Not to mention Jim Daley. But he knew how to handle that boy.

  When he stepped on to the runway at Kinloch, he raised his face to the bright sun and thanked his lucky stars they’d sent for him.

  12

  Dumgoyne, Stirlingshire, 1994

  Ian Burns pulled his car into the lay-by and lit yet another cigarette.

  He remembered the last time he’d been there, the bleached white face of the tragic youth who’d taken his own life. The lad had cut his wrists and calmly sat down by a stream to die. Something in Burns admired the quiet dignity of the act, while most of his being recoiled at the needless waste of life. But he’d seen lots of wasted lives, one way or another.

  He shielded his eyes against the sun as he stepped out of the car and waited to cross the busy road. Black smoke issued from the tall chimney of the little distillery nestled near the road to his left. He carried on, taking a rickety stile over a barbed wire fence and beginning a slow plod across a rolling green field.

  The weather had been mercifully dry, so he’d decided not to put on the pair of old wellingtons that resided in the boot of his car, yet another hangover from his long police career. In the beginning, he’d ruined too many pairs of shoes in mud, water, snow, oil, or the many other underfoot conditions he’d had to endure as a young detective. Burns had soon learned to keep three items in the boot: his wellingtons, a large rain jacket and a heavy torch. He’d passed the tip on many times – including to the man he was about to meet. He was glad, though, of the warm scarf round his neck. He was painfully thin and always felt the cold.

  He crossed a tiny bridge on to a rough track that took him uphill. He had to stop after a few long strides in order to cough. It was cold in the shade of the trees that covered the hillside; he drew the scarf closer about his neck.

  As he wheezed in more air, he sighed at the habit he couldn’t quit and reached into the pocket of his jacket for his cigarettes and gold lighter, cursing when he realised he’d left the latter in the car. Thankfully, in another pocket, he found a small book of matches, emblazoned with the name ‘Germond’, the tiny bistro he and his wife visited when they were in France. He smiled at the thought of the little brasserie. He resolved to book flights and return soon.

  It was in a cloud of blue cigarette smoke that he emerged from the canopy of pine trees into a clearing. The steep dome of the hill loomed over the scene as he looked around. There was no sign of the man he’d come to meet, so he took the weight from his lean frame by leaning against a fence in order to finish his smoke, staring about idly. A single white trail from a passenger jet meandered across the blue sky, while an unkindness of ravens tumbled just above the treeline.

  An unkindness. A strange name for a collection of birds, but not for much he had seen in his life: far too much thoughtlessness, cruelty, violence, death and pointless wickedness. They left a mark on any police officer, the size and shape of the stain dictated by the soul of the individual concerned. The blemish Burns carried around was broad, ink-black and, despite his best efforts since retirement, stubbornly ever-present.

  He heard something move to his right and turned to face the noise.

  ‘Jim, is that you?’

  When there was no reply he ambled across to where the thick forest of spruce trees met the path, in the general direction of the noise he’d heard. A collared dove flapp
ed from the curtain of evergreens, making his heart thud in his chest with surprise. He shivered, the sun now shaded behind the high green canopy.

  Burns heard footsteps behind him.

  ‘Jim, there you—’ The blow caught him hard on the side of the head, stopping the words in his throat as he swivelled round. He managed to catch his assailant’s lip, making him grunt.

  But the man was too strong for him. As Ian Burns’s strength ebbed away, high above the trees, the ravens cawed at yet more unkindness in the world.

  Kinloch, the present

  Speirs stared down at the graves as the slow process of removing the remains for forensic investigation got under way. Duncan Chisholm was fussing over a large plastic box – like an oversized version of the Tupperware affair his wife used to put his lunchtime sandwiches in, Speirs thought.

  ‘Calm down, man. You’ll have a bloody heart attack,’ he said. ‘Trust me, this bloody job’s no’ worth it.’

  ‘But you’re not in the job now, Bobby,’ replied Chisholm, a strand of his white hair flopping over his sweaty brow as he toiled away in the white forensic suit.

  ‘Oh aye, here we go. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m investigating this, so relax. I’ll deal with young Jimmy, too.’

  ‘Young Jimmy? You’re behind the times, Bobby. Big lump of a man now.’

  ‘Does he still walk about quoting from Force Standing Orders? Prick.’

  ‘All I’m saying is watch how you go. Remember, he’s not forgotten what happened the last time – not by a long, long chalk, I’d say.’

  ‘Someone told me he was a fat bastard now. That bonnie wife o’ his fucked off. Man, she was a cracker. Went over the jumps with half of Paisley CID, I heard, the tart.’

  ‘Would you shut up!’ said Chisholm, plodding towards him, his voice urgent. ‘This is his little kingdom down here. If I were you, I’d keep him onside. He’s no wet-behind-the-ears laddie now.’