The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  The little cottage nestled in the lee of a small hill, about half a mile out of the village along a single-track road. Three expensive-looking mountain bikes were propped up against the wall: two adult cycles and a tiny child’s bike.

  Daley pulled the car to a halt and he and Scott made their way up the shingle path, past several fish boxes, half a dozen yellow net-floats and a lobster creel, all painted and prettified to provide a feature in the tiny front garden.

  As Daley knocked on the door he could hear the tinkling laughter of a child – a toddler, he reckoned – which instantly brought a picture of his own young son to mind. Banishing the thought, he stepped back to stand beside Scott, who was idly taking in the scene as they waited for a response. Gulls soared above a blue sea bordered by rugged clumps of rocks, which gave way via rough machair to small bays of white sand dotted along the coast. A sandpiper flew low over the house, its baleful call adding to Daley’s feeling of unease.

  The door opened to reveal a tall young man dressed in a T-shirt and chinos, his bare toes poking from a pair of sandy flip-flops.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, passing his hand across his short dark hair, a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘I’m DCI Daley from Kinloch Police Office, and this is DS Scott,’ replied Daley, showing the man his warrant card. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your holiday – it’s really nothing to worry about. I’m just looking for some information.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Yes, of course.’ He looked surprised, but he stepped back from the door, letting the detectives enter the cottage.

  Sitting at a dining table, a young woman was feeding a toddler. The little girl, sitting on her knee, had food plastered across her face.

  ‘Dan, what’s this?’ asked the woman, looking just as confused as her partner.

  Daley got straight to the point. ‘I think I’m right in saying that none of you has had the need of any medical assistance since you arrived?’

  ‘No, not at all. The little one here has had the sniffles, but it’s just the change of air. Nothing this fresh in London, I’m sad to say. This is Daisy’s first holiday and she’s just acclimatising.’ The father smiled at his little girl. ‘Can I ask what, or who, you’re looking for?’

  ‘Can I have your name, sir?’ said Scott, notebook in hand.

  ‘Sorry, how rude of me. I’m Dan Wilks, this is my wife Terri, and you’ve met Daisy,’ he replied, smiling again at the toddler.

  Scott took a note of their permanent address – in an upmarket London suburb – and let Daley continue.

  ‘Dan, Terri, the reason we’re here is because apparently a call was made from this cottage to the local hospital in Kinloch earlier today.’

  ‘There must be some mistake. We’ve had no cause to call for medical assistance. In fact, I’m a doctor, so I think I’ll be able to cope with most holiday emergencies.’

  ‘Nae landline here, eh?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Sorry? You’ll have to say that more slowly, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Terri Wilks made her first contribution to the conversation. ‘No, we’ve not been in need of any medical help, and yes, there is a landline – it goes with the broadband, which, incidentally, is crap. There’s the router over there.’ She pointed to a phone sitting in its cradle on a table beside a sofa.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dan, frowning at his wife. ‘We both have very demanding careers. This is the first holiday we’ve had since Daisy was born. No offence intended, but people keep popping in out of the blue. It’s a bit unsettling when you’re trying to relax. I mean, this is a beautiful place, and we just want time to enjoy it.’

  ‘Can you tell me, who has been popping in apart from us?’ Daley asked.

  ‘Oh, the owner of this place has been here no less than three times in four days, as well as a bloody cheeky archaeologist, of all things.’

  ‘Who owns the cottage, Dr Wilks?’ asked Scott.

  ‘A local guy – he lives at the other end of the village. Galt is his name – Colin Galt.’

  ‘I thought the owners of places like this always did their best to stay out of the way, let guests enjoy their holiday,’ said Daley.

  ‘Not in this case. He’s not been coming to see us, just taking things up to the loft.’

  Scott looked up. ‘Cannae be very big,’ he observed quietly.

  ‘Don’t get us wrong, we love the cottage, and Mr Galt is a very pleasant chap . . .’

  ‘Bit of a sleaze, if you ask me,’ said Terri, raising her brows.

  ‘Sleaze?’ asked Daley and Scott in unison.

  ‘Come on, Terri, he’s not that bad. You spend too much time with those creeps in Whitehall.’

  ‘Wandering eyes, Mr Daley. Ask any woman. You can always spot them.’

  ‘You work in Whitehall, Mrs Wilks?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Yes, I’m director of communications in a government department. I spend a lot of time dealing with senior police officers, as it happens. I didn’t envisage doing it on holiday.’ She spat out the comment, making the little girl on her knee cry. ‘Come on, poppet, we’ll go for a little walk – come back when things are quieter.’ She glared at the police officers, picked up the child and strode from the room, muttering under her breath.

  ‘I must apologise. My wife isn’t normally as spiky as this. As I say, she has a difficult job and I think she hoped that her time here would be more . . . peaceful,’ Dan said, flashing a weak smile.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. We’ll leave you to enjoy your holiday. I’m sure we can get hold of Mr Galt quite easily. I want to get to the bottom of this call to the hospital, as I’m sure you understand. Before we go, though, could you tell me about this archaeologist?’

  ‘Nothing to tell, really. Young man – a bit older than me. Scruffy, maybe, but in my experience from uni, most of that calling are. Wanted to dig up the front garden there and then. He was very insistent – rude, as I said. I told him that he would have to go and see Mr Galt, and that we didn’t fancy being part of an archaeological dig on our holiday. Terri left him with rather a flea in his ear, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Scott under his breath.

  ‘Did you get his name?’ asked Daley quickly.

  ‘No, I didn’t get the chance to ask. Sorry.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll leave you to the rest of your holiday. I hope you’ll be left in peace for what remains of it.’

  ‘I’m running in the race tomorrow. Then, I’m sad to say, we’re off back to London the day after.’

  ‘Me tae. I’m running as well,’ said Scott, the second half of his sentence more slow and deliberate in case Wilks didn’t understand him.

  ‘Good effort! Especially for a man of your age.’

  ‘Eh?’ exclaimed Scott. ‘I’m in the prime of life, mate. I widnae go back tae my thirties even if I could.’

  Daley interrupted before Scott managed to get the bit between his teeth and started wasting valuable time regaling them with the science of running, a subject in which Daley had absolutely no interest. ‘I’m sure this archaeologist will have contacted Mr Galt. I’ll ask him what he was after.’

  ‘Look, here’s Colin’s card,’ said Wilks, handing Daley a small rectangle of cardboard. ‘It has his mobile, home and work numbers, as well as his email address. He left it with us when we arrived. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’

  Daley wished him well for the run and the rest of his holiday, and soon he and Scott were back in the SUV.

  ‘I wonder who this bloody archaeologist is, Bri?’

  ‘Boris, I shouldnae wonder.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Och, I cannae remember his name. Bernie something or other – he was in the pub last night when I was wae Dunky Chisholm and thon Francombe lassie.’

  ‘Why are you so sure it was him?’

  ‘He’s based here in Machrie. Looking for some kind o’ Viking longship, or something. Here, Jimmy, we missed a trick there. We should’ve been right up in that lo
ft tae see what this Galt bloke was up tae.’

  ‘Great idea, Brian. So, just jump into the loft without a warrant and piss off Mrs Wilks more than she’s pissed off already. Then, in the unlikely event we do find something untoward we’ve not even been looking for, we’re buggered because of evidence protocols. Good plan. We have a missing nurse, remember. When we find her we can ask this Bernie what he was up to. But I’d like you to give Galt a call. I’ll go back to the hospital, get as much on Helen McNeil as I can. Maybe she’s surfaced.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Maybe. Give the office a call and see if anything’s been reported. We might get a fix on her mobile, or maybe her car’ll be spotted. I’m sure she’ll surface eventually.’

  Daley put his foot down and sped along the straight road to Kinloch. She’s not going to turn up, he thought to himself.

  14

  Sergeant Shaw took Daley aside when they arrived back at the office. As he’d expected, there had been no sign of Helen McNeil back at the hospital, nor had any contact been made, despite Keiller’s calling her mobile every fifteen minutes, or as much time between calls as his guilty conscience would permit. It appeared the device was switched off, making tracing it virtually impossible.

  ‘There’s Mr Speirs to see you, sir. He’s waiting in the family room,’ said Shaw with a frown.

  ‘That’ll please him.’

  ‘No, it won’t. He wanted to sit in the CID suite, but as a civilian I told him that wasn’t really appropriate.’

  Daley grinned to himself as he strode down the corridor. Shaw was a good judge of character, and it appeared, despite the brevity of their first meeting, the wily desk sergeant had already spotted Speirs for the rotten apple he was.

  Daley swung the door open to find the cold case officer fast asleep, stretched out on a couch in the family room. He watched the retired cop’s large gut rise and fall as he snored softly.

  ‘Sleeping on the job, Bobby? Some things never change,’ said Daley in a voice slightly louder than required.

  The older man stirred, opening his eyes, looking momentarily disoriented.

  ‘Jimmy Daley,’ he said. ‘Never got the reception I was hoping for here. That bloody sergeant wouldn’t let me in the CID office. I’d nothing better tae do than catch a wee bit of shut-eye. I thought you – of all people – would be keen tae find out what’s lying up on that hill.’

  ‘Me of all people – what do you mean, Bobby?’

  ‘Ach, come on, son. Every bastard Glasgow cop o’er the age of thirty-five knows about you and the Grab a Granny case. I reckon they buggers at the training college teach it – you know, how not to conduct yourself as a police officer.’ He sneered at Daley, swinging his legs back on to the floor and straightening his tie.

  ‘For a start, Mr Speirs, I’m not “son”. If these are the remains of the missing three women from the Midweek Murders case, then I’m pleased to say any involvement you have will be over.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You’re a cold case civilian investigator, remember?’

  ‘Oh aye.’

  ‘And once it ceases to be cold and becomes a fully fledged investigation, your services will no longer be required.’

  Speirs shook his head and smiled. ‘I had a wee word wae Assistant Chief Constable Cunningham before I came doon. He’s right intae these cold case units. “Why discard experienced detectives just because they’ve had tae give up the badge?” says he. Aye, that’s what he thinks. “Just you see this tae its conclusion, Bobby – no matter where it leads you.” Good bloke, as far as I’m concerned.’ Though his smile was benign, there was something behind his grey eyes of another complexion entirely.

  ‘Well, we’ll see what happens.’

  ‘Aye, that you will, Jimmy. The remains have just been flown tae Glasgow. We should know within the next few hours.’

  ‘I know that, I read it online. Some bastard’s leaking like a burst drain.’

  ‘Really? Bad form, Jimmy. You’ll no be happy aboot that. I didn’t have you down as someone who’d paddle a leaky boat, so tae speak.’

  ‘An old speciality of yours, if I remember. Now, what was it you used to say? “The papers pay my holidays every year. You should try it.”’

  Speirs laughed. ‘That was then, this is now, Jimmy. Mind I’ve got a pension as well as a nice lump sum under my belt these days. All the kids have flown the nest – just me and the wife. No need tae supplement my income – unless you count this wee number, that is.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Dae you know who put me ontae this? Wasn’t sure about it myself, but the man was very persuasive – as you know.’

  ‘John Donald.’

  ‘Aye, the very chap. Sadly missed, sadly missed, indeed. I for one didn’t believe half the shite they said about him. Brave, tae; got between you and a bullet, did he no’?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Anyhow, just calling it as I see it.’ Speirs got to his feet and coughed throatily. ‘Nothing much tae be done until they bones get analysed. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like access tae a desk and a computer.’ He winked. ‘Just want tae reacquaint myself wae the case. Lot on my plate in this game. Lots o’ cold cases.’

  ‘Speak to Sergeant Shaw at the bar office. He’ll find you a cubbyhole somewhere.’

  ‘We’ll see, son. I’m no’ too keen on cubbyholes. I remember the one I put you in – mind?’

  Daley walked up to the rotund man. ‘Difference is, Bobby, these days, I call the shots.’ He turned on his heel. ‘We’ll hold off until we hear from SOCO.’

  ‘Aye, whatever you say, son.’

  Daley hesitated in the doorway. He could feel his right eye twitching and his heart rate rise. ‘First time I’ve ever heard you say anything that was remotely correct, Bobby. I’m glad you’ve picked things up so quickly.’

  Before Speirs could answer, Daley stepped out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.

  The first pain she felt was in her knees. It was an ache, but sharper. It reminded her of the times she’d fallen off her bike as a child, the agony of a bare knee impacting with the hard pavement, followed by the scrape of skin being ripped off by an unforgiving surface. Tentatively, she reached out with her hand; sure enough, she could feel a gash and a dampness she assumed was blood. She sniffed at it – yes, the unmistakable metallic odour. Both knees were the same. Yet she had no memory of how these minor injuries had occurred

  It was dark, though there seemed to be a grey luminescence, enabling her to just about see her hand in front of her face, if not the walls of the room she was in. She began to panic, but forced herself to remain calm by taking deep, slow breaths.

  She pulled herself up painfully from the cold rough ground. Come to think of it, she was really cold. Only when she had processed this thought did she begin to shiver.

  Holding her arm out in front of her, her hand held up flat, she walked forward with tiny steps until her outstretched palm met something hard – the wall, she presumed. She reached up tentatively, pushing both hands as high as she could up the roughly hewn surface – on tiptoes now. Slowly, she moved along, hoping to locate something on the face of the structure – but something was wrong. Maybe she was losing her mind, perhaps it was the darkness, but this wall seemed to curve.

  She breathed deeply again, desperately trying to collect her thoughts. A door, yes, where there was a wall there had to be a door!

  Again she shuffled, more purposefully now, following the curve of the wall, repeatedly running her hand up and down its cold, damp surface. Somehow, there was a sense of timelessness about this place. It was as though she had slipped into a dark chasm where nothing made sense.

  She kept moving slowly sideways. The space seemed never-ending. Either it was huge and she just hadn’t come across the door yet, or there wasn’t one. But surely that was impossible!

  She looked up. The source of the dim illumination was two tiny pinpricks of light. Glowin
g dimly back, just enough for the room not to be completely dark, but not enough to see anything clearly. There was no way of gauging how far above her it was. She stood on her tiptoes, reaching high above her head, desperately trying to lay hands on the source of this meagre light.

  She gave up, her deep breaths echoing from the cold stone walls.

  Another idea popped into her mind. In an attempt to estimate the rough size of the room, she would place her back against the curved wall then walk straight ahead. Without the aid of sight, the biting cold, darkness and echo made the space appear huge. In her mind, she already imagined she was at the bottom of a large tower. Find a door and she would be free – at the very least, if it was locked, she could bang and shout for help with some hope of rescue. Even the sound of a human voice would be of some comfort, malevolent or not.

  She cursed her muddled thoughts. Her mind was like cotton wool. The more she tried to think straight, the more her attention would drift to something else: her home; work; colleagues; old loves, childhood; hopes; fears. This all made her angry, eventually forcing her to cry out in frustration, a desperate wail that echoed so loudly about her in the darkness that she cowered into herself.

  She pulled herself up, placed her back flat against the wall, and took a deep breath, feeling her hand shake as she held it out as a guide.

  She walked slowly, barely lifting her feet, rather shuffling in case she fell over something on the uneven ground. Then it dawned on her: what if the floor fell away? What if she was near a vertiginous drop, a plummet into oblivion? She had already counted three steps – she now resolved to push her front foot out, sliding it as best she could upon the ground, inch by inch, just to make sure that her next stride didn’t see her topple into an abyss.

  She counted again: three, four, five, six, seven, eight . . . When her hand collided with the unyielding wall she was momentarily shocked. That she had walked in a straight line she was almost certain. But how could this be a tiny place? Again, through the cotton wool confusion of her thoughts, she tried to process the discovery.