The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Huh! Nah, he’s a fat late-forty-something that can’t keep his wife satisfied. Remember, I’m not part of the command structure down here, or anywhere else. I answer tae ACC Cunningham, end of. I don’t care how big Jim Daley’s boots have become.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be able to judge for yourself in a minute.’ Chisholm nodded over Speirs’s shoulder.

  He turned. Sure enough, striding up the hill came two figures: one tall, his shirt tail hanging from the front of his dark suit trousers, the other man smaller, hair close-cropped and hands in his pockets as he sauntered towards them.

  ‘Is that Brian bloody Scott?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘No show without Punch.’

  ‘Aye, literally. He’s just the same – apart from not boozing any more.’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Speirs, feigning surprise. ‘I don’t think I can take any mair shocks.’

  ‘I hope you won’t have to,’ said Chisholm.

  Glasgow, 1994

  On Daley’s desk was a picture of the murdered woman who’d been washed ashore at Greenock. Denise Milton was young and pretty; dark hair and dark eyes above a winning smile. She stared out of the photograph, oblivious of the horror that lay in wait for her. The thoughts that always plagued him when he looked at images of murder victims flooded into his brain yet again. The many smiling faces, blissfully ignorant of their future. It always made Daley shudder.

  Yet again, his job weighed down his soul. Not for the first time, he questioned his decision to become a police officer. It wasn’t too late. He was still young, could easily change tack and do something else. Though what something else was eluded him.

  He saw the little boy’s features in his dead mother’s face. The poor child was pathetically stubborn in the face of tragedy, railing against the loss of the touchstone of his young life with an upturned chin and a determined expression.

  The awful twist of fate that had led him to see his dead mother when she washed up on a tiny stretch of sand would cause a feeding frenzy within the ranks of the press. The Midweek Murders were already a cause célèbre.

  Though they couldn’t be sure at this stage, the chances that this woman was the latest victim were strong – the same modus operandi. Young woman, unattached, last seen in one of the city’s nightclubs on a Wednesday night. Despite the best efforts of the team of detectives dedicated to the case, they had been unable to discover anything about the other woman, the friend who’d accompanied her on her last night out. The chances of a breakthrough were little aided by the sketchy description the mother of this victim had given the police.

  ‘She was just a friend; I’d never seen her before. Tae be honest I was watching Coronation Street so I wisnae paying much attention,’ the older woman had sobbed.

  The phone on his desk rang.

  ‘Daley.’

  ‘A call for you, Jim. Mrs Burns.’

  Daley waited while the call was put through.

  ‘Hello, Jim, is that you?’

  ‘Mrs Burns, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just wondering, Ian isn’t with you by any chance?’

  ‘No,’ replied Daley, puzzled by the question. In the years since his retirement, despite many invitations, Ian Burns hadn’t crossed the threshold of his former place of employment. ‘I’m sorry. What makes you think he would be here?’

  ‘He said he was meeting you. That was about three hours ago. To be honest, I’d expected him back by now. I just thought perhaps something had turned up that required him to go to Glasgow with you. I mean, I know you normally meet in the potting shed.’ She laughed, but Daley could hear the concern in her voice.

  ‘I had no meeting arranged with Ian. Are you sure it wasn’t someone else? I know he sometimes sees Mike Allen, his old DS.’

  ‘No, it was definitely you he mentioned. Unless he made a mistake – us old folk do, you know.’ Again, the attempt at humour was strained.

  Daley felt his heart pound in his chest. He could see the note written in ‘blood’, threatening the life of his old mentor. ‘You’re sure it was me he said he was meeting?’

  ‘Yes, most certainly it was you. He’s always happy to see you, so he was quite bright about it.’

  ‘Did he take the car?’

  ‘Oh, gosh, yes. You know Ian – rarely walks the length of himself.’

  ‘Okay. Well, give me a wee while with this. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Possibly got side-tracked by Mike, and they’re getting into a dram or two in that wee room of his. He’s got some collection of whisky.’

  ‘I’ve been married to a detective all these years, Jim Daley. Some things rub off, you know. You’re not telling me everything. I can hear it in your voice.’

  ‘Oh, just this case I’m working on. Difficult stuff,’ he lied.

  ‘Okay, if you say so, Jim,’ she replied doubtfully.

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve found him.’

  Daley ended the call, then immediately rushed from his desk, across the foyer and into the control room.

  ‘Donnie,’ he said to the controller sitting in the low light, a set of headphones with attached microphone on his head. ‘I need you to put out a vehicle search – urgent.’ From memory, he recited the registration number.

  ‘That’s vaguely familiar. Isn’t that Ian Burns’s car?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replied Daley, grim-faced.

  ‘I’ll get on to it now. I’ll make it force wide and pass it on to Central Scotland. He still lives up in Stirlingshire, right?’

  As Jim Daley heard the registration being broadcast to every police officer in Strathclyde and beyond, he cursed his foolishness. He shouldn’t have listened to Burns. He should have alerted his superiors to the threats being made to the former DCI. He’d suspected they were not idle mischief all along. He should have listened to that voice in his head, his instinct – the things Burns himself had taught him.

  The controller looked him straight in the face. ‘You’re white as a sheet, Jim.’

  No wonder, he thought. In his heart, he felt something was very wrong.

  The door to the control room opened.

  ‘Why are we searching for Ian Burns’s car?’ John Donald was framed in the doorway, wearing a well-cut suit, his hair slicked back. ‘Daley. Might have known you’d be at the root of this. Can’t bear to be without the old boy. Aw, how touching.’

  ‘That’s not what’s happening.’

  ‘Well, what is happening?’

  Daley sighed. ‘I need to speak to you. Now.’

  Daley’s tone wiped the smug smile from Donald’s face. ‘Come with me,’ he commanded.

  Kinloch, the present

  Brian Scott emerged from the shower room, rubbing his hair with a towel. He’d begun his run at the County Hotel and ended it back at the office, where he left a suit, shirt, tie and shoes into which he would change after his run.

  He looked at his watch as he sauntered through the CID suite, nodding to the detectives hard at work there.

  He chapped on the door of Daley’s glass box, opening it slightly to see the big man sitting behind his desk, phone to his ear and a deadly serious look on his face. He waved his DS in. Still rubbing his hair dry, Scott took a seat opposite him just as he was ending the call.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Okay, Bobby, I’ll be up within the hour. Cheers, mate.’

  As Scott looked on, he noticed the face didn’t match the words. ‘Don’t tell me, Bobby Speirs.’

  ‘Yup,’ replied Daley. ‘Telling everyone he’s directing operations, if you please.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Nothing I can do, of course. I mean, who’s in charge of these bloody cold case officers? You saw the arrogance of him earlier.’

  ‘Buggered if I know. Mind you, that bastard never paid any attention tae orders when he needed tae. I cannae see he’ll be any different now, Jimmy.’

  ‘Do you know, that was the first time I’ve actually seen him face to face since . . .�
��

  ‘Aye, I know, big man. I know how you feel. How can any o’ us forget? I met him a few times – mind I was on secondment tae the north for a murder case? Och, must be ten years ago noo. And that retirement shindig I telt you aboot.’

  ‘Yes, I do, funnily enough. They took you off the case we were working on in Paisley, if I remember.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. Anyhow, I was there for nearly a month. Speirs was a DI at Baird Street then. Never looked the road I was on. You’d have sworn he didnae know who I was.’ Scott looked as though he could spit.

  ‘He got a shock when he saw me, didn’t he?’

  ‘You’ve no’ changed that much. The hair’s no’ the same colour as it was, but you’ve still got your youthful charm, Jimmy.’

  ‘Oh aye. By the way, you had your head down when I saw you earlier. Pounding around the esplanade. What on earth were you wearing?’

  ‘I never saw you. I was starting tae get cramp there. And you should know – a road safety issue – you have tae wear bright clothes when you’re oot running, so as folk see you.’

  ‘See you? You were visible from space. Running about like a superannuated budgie.’

  ‘This bloody marathon is the morrow. I don’t want tae let the side doon. I’m representing Police Scotland, mind.’

  ‘And don’t worry. We’ll have someone at this monumental event to get some pictures for posterity. I won’t be surprised if you end up getting a promotion out of this, Bri.’ Daley smiled at the look on his colleague’s face.

  ‘You know fine I’d have tae beat thon Usain Bolt tae sniff a promotion. No, I’m running for the honour o’ the job, remember. I’m no’ angling for a bloody promotion. Too late in the day noo.’

  As Daley laughed, the phone on his desk burst into life again.

  ‘Kinloch Hospital for you, sir,’ said Sergeant Shaw.

  Daley waited for the call to be put through.

  ‘Chief Inspector, it’s Adam Keiller, nursing manager here at the hospital. We talked earlier.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Keiller, how can I help you?’

  ‘It’s Helen McNeil, one of our district nurses. I know you’re aware of the problems she’s been having.’

  ‘Yes, I am. We’re still investigating the case, so I’m afraid I’ve nothing to tell you at the moment. I know you must be concerned.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that – though of course we’re concerned,’ Keiller added quickly. ‘It’s just, well . . .’

  ‘I’m quite busy, Mr Keiller. Can you get to the point, please? I know this will be difficult for Nurse McNeil. But a spell working in the hospital where we can keep an eye on her until this unpleasantness is resolved is better for her, I assure you.’

  ‘Right, now that’s where we have a problem.’ Keiller sounded unsure.

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘We had a call this morning – just after Helen started her shift, in fact. One of the visitors here for the marathon tomorrow, staying in a cottage near Machrie, had a fall, apparently. Knocked themselves about a bit – damaged leg, I think. Nothing life-threatening, you understand, but needed attention and the ambulance was out on an emergency.’

  ‘And?’ Daley’s expression darkened.

  ‘Well, Helen insisted. I mean, Machrie’s not far and it was broad daylight by this time. We sent her to help the patient.’

  ‘You did what!’ Daley sprang from his chair. ‘I left strict instructions that Nurse McNeil was to stay in the hospital during her working day, and be escorted back to her flat when she finished. Where is she now?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. That was almost two hours ago, and she hasn’t returned. We tried to call her on her mobile, but no reply. Also, no reply from the person who made the call for assistance in the first place. It’s probably just the signal – you know how bad things are here. But we thought we’d better get you in the loop, just in case.’

  ‘Stay where you are, Mr Keiller. I’ll be at the hospital in a few minutes. I can’t believe you’ve been so casual with the safety of one of your charges.’ He slammed the phone down. ‘Right, Brian. Bobby Speirs will have to wait. Come with me.’

  13

  Stirlingshire, 1994

  As he climbed the hill under the shadow of Dumgoyne, Daley’s mind scrolled through the many times he’d felt this way. Being taken out of class to be told by the headmaster that his granny had died and somebody would drive him home; the news that his best friend in primary seven had been killed in a car accident; the look in his father’s eyes as they caught his for the last time before cancer took his life. It was that same empty feeling, a mixture of hopelessness and displacement that gnawed at his heart.

  He had it now.

  He’d heard the words only an hour ago, but they were still playing in his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s gone, Jim,’ said DS Bright.

  ‘Who’s gone – gone where?’

  ‘Ian Burns. He’s dead.’

  As he crested the top of the hill, he turned to stare back down at the lay-by where Ian Burns’s Volvo estate was parked, now flanked by two police vehicles, lights flashing.

  He swallowed hard as he set foot on the path which swung into the trees and was met by the familiar sight of a group of police officers, some uniformed, the others forensic detectives. Two men in white paper overalls were erecting a blue police incident tent within the bounds of the yellow Police – Do Not Cross tape.

  He’d walked into scenes like this literally hundreds of times. Although it was never pleasant, it normally lacked this heightened sense of horror and loss.

  He flashed his warrant card at a young cop, who let him approach the knot of his colleagues with a grim nod.

  DCI Sanderson was standing over the body, his mouth, as always, agape. Suddenly, Daley felt utter revulsion for the man. He stood beside another elderly detective Daley didn’t recognise. This man was shaking his head, a pained look on his face.

  Sanderson looked up. ‘Daley, come here!’

  The young detective did as he was bid, weaving his way through the quiet ranks of his colleagues until he was standing beside the two senior men.

  At first, he couldn’t bear to look down at the figure lying in the storm ditch. But a glance was enough for him to recognise the worn beige raincoat, the scarf half covering the face of the spare, motionless frame. This was the lifeless body of the man who had been not only his boss and mentor, but also his friend.

  Ian Burns was dead.

  ‘This is where ignoring the rules gets you, Daley,’ said Sanderson, spitting out the words. ‘I’ve spoken to DI Donald. Your actions – or lack of them – are the cause of this. DCI Burns was respected by us all – a cop to his bootstraps. This is his reward for all those years of toil, fighting against the shite we face every day. And it’s your fault.’

  Daley couldn’t speak. He opened his mouth but the words would not come.

  ‘Say something!’ roared Sanderson.

  ‘I . . . I was keeping Ian’s confidence. He didn’t want anyone to know . . .’

  ‘He’d received a written threat. Your friend in Forensics was smart enough to come forward with that little nugget as soon as he heard. The one we know of, of course. What else don’t we know that you’ve kept secret?’ The question was rhetorical – for now. ‘You, of course, didn’t see fit to go through the proper channels. No, all you thought about was licking his arse the way you did when he was in my job. You should have come to me immediately, you prick!’ Flecks of spittle showered from Sanderson’s mouth as he spoke. ‘You might as well have stuck the fucking knife in his throat yourself!’

  Daley cracked. He flung himself bodily at the DCI, fists clenched. He caught Sanderson a blow on the shoulder before the phalanx of other officers managed to subdue him.

  ‘Well, if it wasn’t obvious already, that’s your job fucked now, son,’ said Sanderson, rubbing his shoulder where Daley had connected and trying to regain his composure.

  ‘Now, that’s eno
ugh!’ shouted a man beside Sanderson. ‘Daley, pull yourself together, man. Let him go,’ he continued, gesturing to the officers restraining the young detective. ‘I’m Superintendent Ronald Alford, DC Daley. I might be a mere Central Scotland Police officer, but this is my patch and I’m the ranking officer here. What you do in Glasgow is up to you, but I won’t have this behaviour here. Got it?’ He looked from Daley to Sanderson. ‘I only met DCI Burns on a few occasions during his career, but I knew him sufficiently well to know that he was a thoroughgoing professional. Please afford him the courtesy of handling this – this tragedy – in a manner of which he would approve. I’m sure he would wish nothing else. I know there are many questions to be asked and answered, but at the moment we’re standing over a fallen colleague. Show some respect!’

  A forensic officer spoke quietly to Alford.

  ‘Right, gentlemen. Let’s us away and leave these men to get on with their jobs. Sergeant Cowan, I want the hill sealed off at all its access points, with uniformed officers at intervals around the locus here. See to it.’

  As the small group of detectives made their way down the hill Alford continued to speak.

  ‘I will want a statement from you, DC Daley. All that DCI Burns told you, as well as the whereabouts of any evidence he may have given you. I intend to play this absolutely down the line, DCI Sanderson. I’m sure you understand. We also have the vexed question of who will break the news to his wife. I should be the one, but from what I can gather you’re a family friend, Daley. I want you to come with me.’

  ‘Then you make sure you hand Daley back to me,’ said Sanderson, the bile in his voice obvious.

  ‘Hand him back sounds rather over the top, DCI Sanderson. But of course, when we’ve been to see Mrs Burns, and DC Daley has given me his statement, he will be free to return to Glasgow.’

  ‘Aye, just make sure you do return to Glasgow – straight back to Stewart Street, Daley,’ said Sanderson. ‘We’ll not go through the formalities here, but consider yourself under arrest.’

  Kinloch, the present

  After an acrimonious meeting with Keiller at Kinloch Hospital, Daley, with Scott at his side, was driving the short distance to Machrie. He dropped the speed of his SUV as he drove through the village, following the directions he’d been given by Keiller’s assistant.