The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  She turned round and shuffled back the way she had come – or hoped she was doing so. Sure enough, in just over ten paces she was back against the wall.

  Things were beginning to make terrifying sense. She stopped for a moment, thinking. She slid off the sturdy black shoe was wearing, left it on a point near the wall, and began to shuffle again, this time using the cold stone as her curving guide. She tried desperately to keep her stride length even, so that by each step she was measuring a similar distance.

  In the process of taking her sixteenth shuffle, her front foot collided with something light, pushing it along the ground with a tiny scraping noise. She knelt down and picked it up – her left shoe.

  This was no vaulted cathedral, no infinite space – barely any space at all, in fact. There was no door she could hammer on to call for assistance – she was trapped in some hellish prison with no way out.

  Helen McNeil screamed. The sound of her desperation echoing around the cold, hard walls was the only response.

  15

  Stirlingshire, 1994

  Daley looked at Amanda Burns as she sat in the neat living room of the house she’d shared with her husband for so long. Her eyes were red with tears, but the crying had stopped now. In fact, Daley was impressed by her self-possession given that she had just been informed about the murder of her soulmate.

  ‘Of course, Amanda, it goes without saying that should you need anything all you have to do is call my office – day or night,’ said Superintendent Alford. ‘I’ve stationed two men outside the house, and there they’ll stay until we get to the bottom of what happened to Ian. And we will find out who did this, I promise.’

  ‘Thank you, Ronald. It’s so strange. I lived with the fear that something like this would happen all the time Ian was in the police. Stupidly, when he retired, I felt as though a world of care had been lifted from my shoulders. How naïve I was.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Remember, we have no idea why this happened to Ian. Of course, it could be something to do with his past. Equally, he could just be the victim of some random, sick individual. Goodness knows, there’s more than enough of them about, I can tell you.’ Alford paused, turning his gaze towards Daley. ‘We should go – get you back to Glasgow, DC Daley.’

  Amanda Burns looked up suddenly, focusing on Daley as though this was the first time she’d realised he was there. ‘Jim, can I have a word with you before you go? In private, if possible – would that be in order, Ronald?’

  Alford cleared his throat. ‘As I’ve said, anything you want. Of course you can have a chat with young Daley here. I know he’s a family friend as well as a former colleague. I’ll wait for you in the car, DC Daley.’

  He left the room, leaving the young DC feeling momentarily confused. In the main, it had been Alford who had imparted the bad news. Daley had just sat holding Amanda Burns’s hand, trying his best to be of comfort to her. He had admired the professional, no-nonsense way the Central Scotland superintendent had handled the situation, almost as much as he admired the way she was bearing up. Now he was left alone with the newly widowed woman he felt awkward, despite having known her for so many years.

  Amanda Burns cocked her head as the front door closed, and looked up at him. ‘Jim, I have something to give to you. I know what Ian was doing now; he must have known he was in danger.’ She shook her head and sighed deeply. ‘Why didn’t I pick up on any of this before?’

  Daley processed the information with surprise. ‘What did he give you?’ he blurted out, sounding impatient, which made him angry with himself.

  ‘He was very fond of you, Jim, as you well know. Always said you had the brain of a proper detective, and the heart,’ she replied, stressing the last three words. ‘Ian always maintained that one without the other was worthless. I know he expected big things from you – in your career, I mean.’ She stood up and walked across the room to a long sideboard made of dark wood polished to a shine. She opened the drawer and searched through some papers. ‘Here it is,’ she said, brandishing an envelope. She walked over to Daley and handed it to him. ‘He gave me this about three months ago. Made the excuse that it was best for me to pass it on if anything should happen to him. Made a joke about cigarettes and heart attacks. I just thought it was some parting words of advice that would moulder away in the drawer for years – until you were retired yourself,’ she continued, smiling at the thought. ‘Now I fear that he had some notion of what was going to happen to him. Do you think that’s possible, Jim?’

  Daley felt guilt gnawing at his heart. Of course Ian Burns had been afraid something terrible might happen; perhaps he was more frightened than he’d made out when he revealed the receipt of the threatening notes. Though Daley wanted to tell her everything, he knew it would be too much for her. ‘Who knows,’ he said lamely, again at odds with himself. If this letter was anything other than some personal advice, or best wishes, he’d have no choice other than to turn it over to the investigation into Ian Burns’s death. ‘Thank you, Amanda,’ he said at last, his eyes filling with tears. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘One thing he did stress to me was that I should give this to you when you were on your own – just the two of us. He didn’t want colleagues, or even Liz come to that, to know about it. That’s why I asked Ronald to leave us just now.’

  That made sense, he thought, as he held the envelope between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. ‘I think I’ll open it later. I have to get back to Glasgow and start working on finding who did this’ – he looked at the floor – ‘who did this terrible thing.’

  Amanda Burns put her hand on his shoulder, smiling up into his face. Despite the shock of the murder of her husband, she was trying to comfort the younger man, who now had tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘I’m not sure it’s my business to know what’s in it, Jim. Better that you read whatever it contains when you’re on your own. Now, you should get back to work.’

  Daley hugged the widow of the man he’d admired so much, said his goodbyes and was walking from the room when she stopped him.

  ‘Please remember one thing Ian always said, Jim.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘His mantra, I suppose – daft, really. Fight the darkness – always fight the darkness. You must have heard it many times, I suppose.’

  He couldn’t speak, so just walked away, closing the heavy oak front door gently behind him before taking the steps down to the garden path. As he walked to where Superintendent Alford had parked his car, he looked down at the letter Amanda Burns had given him.

  In the familiar spidery hand, written in blue fountain pen ink it read simply: Jim Daley.

  Daley tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket and got in the car, ready to be driven to Glasgow – to face the music.

  Kinloch, the present

  Chief Superintendent Carrie Symington looked different. Instead of the uniform he was used to, liberally adorned with braid, she was wearing a smart trouser suit, her dark hair loose over her shoulders.

  Daley watched her as she studied the files on her desk, familiarising herself with the Midweek Murders case.

  After almost half an hour of silence, she looked up and sighed, ran her hand through her hair. ‘There’s no doubt now. The dental records of two sets of remains match those of missing women from ninety-four – the last supposed victims. Though we don’t have confirmation yet, it’s a bit of a stretch to suppose the third is unconnected. You worked on this case, I see.’ She looked at Daley levelly.

  ‘Yes, I did. First in divisional CID, then the Serious Crime Squad.’

  ‘But not all plain sailing, from what I’ve gleaned elsewhere.’

  ‘No, not plain sailing, I think it’s fair to say that, ma’am.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘Not really. If it’s an order, I’ll comply. If not . . .’

  She stood, walking across what had been the sub-divisional commander’s office, once reserved for John Do
nald, now hers, since Daley preferred to base himself in the glass box in the CID suite. ‘I’m not interested in what happened then. I just want your word that whatever problems you encountered at the time won’t colour your judgement this time round.’

  ‘Will it make a difference what I do? I mean, Bobby Speirs tells me he’s had the nod to head up the case regardless of what the conclusions of SOCO may be. I must confess that I’m astonished we’re leaving the investigation of a high-profile case of long standing such as this to a man who is no longer a police officer, and in my opinion should never have been one in the first place.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true, Jim.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I had a meeting with the ACC earlier today. He wants this to be a joint effort. You, naturally, will take charge of the police side of things – you know, try to discover why and how these three victims ended up on a hillside near Kinloch. Mr Speirs will pull it all together. He was second in command of the inquiry the last time round, and the bosses are keen that we make the most of senior officers in retirement. An untapped resource; think of all that experience going to waste the minute they hang up their warrant cards. It will make us more efficient, while at the same time giving men about to end their careers as police officers proper a goal to aim at if they want. A better prospect than becoming a store detective or private investigator. I would have thought you’d welcome such a development.’

  He sniffed. ‘For me, the sentence containing the words “Speirs” and “welcome” doesn’t exist, unless it also contains the word “dismissal”. The other downside is that instead of recruiting new, young, enthusiastic police officers we’ll have the same old dross living on for ever.’ But as he spoke the words, he wondered how different things would have been if Ian Burns had had the chance to impart his experience as a cold case officer, rather than wasting away in his potting shed.

  ‘Matter of opinion, Jim, and as you know, our opinion doesn’t matter.’ She smiled. ‘It’s not as though you don’t have enough to do. You have this missing nurse, and it’s the marathon tomorrow. As sub-divisional commander you’ll be head and ears into that. Quite a spectacle, so I hear.’

  Daley didn’t take the bait, just shook his head. ‘I’ve got half of everyone I have on finding Helen McNeil, the rest on the bodies.’

  ‘You know a case like this will take on a life of its own. Once the press get a whiff that these are actually the missing victims from the nineties, the landscape may change. Meanwhile – Speirs aside – what’s your plan?’

  ‘Well, the first thing we have to do is try to find the nurse – she’s my priority. Second, find out how the remains got here – and why. Let’s be honest, Kinloch isn’t the automatic choice of burial sites if you’re operating in Glasgow somewhere. I have men out trying to ascertain who regularly travelled up and down at that time. If we can get to the bottom of that, we’ll be much nearer solving the whole thing. It’s hard going, though – in terms of numbers, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sending extra bodies your way. Just give me a few hours to get it fixed.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’m worried about Helen McNeil, Jim. These texts and calls. Do we have some bloody stalker – or worse?’

  ‘How worse? It’s no coincidence that she’s gone missing after the messages. I’m furious that her boss at the hospital let her go. Absolutely against my instructions, I can assure you.’

  ‘Maybe she shouldn’t have been at work – given the circumstances, I mean.’

  ‘She was determined that whoever was doing this to her, she wasn’t going to let it get to her, or change her life. I admired her, in a way.’ He rubbed his temple. ‘I must admit, I wish I’d been more forceful with her now – but we all know what wish did. I’ve got two detectives going through everything we can find on her. SOCO are searching through her flat for anything that might give us a clue. I have some leads to look at, too. But in the main, we have to let Speirs do what he does at the moment with the Midweek Murders case – until everything’s firmed up, I mean.’

  ‘I understand, Jim. Leave this all with me. I’ll liaise with Speirs, get things moving on that front. You, quite rightly, prioritise Helen McNeil.’ She looked at her desk for a moment, drumming her fingers. ‘Is it just me, or is it a bit strange that these things are happening concurrently?’

  ‘You mean McNeil and the bodies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know what possible connection there could be, but, well, we’ll look at everything, obviously.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ she added absently.

  16

  Daley left his boss to organise extra manpower, troubled by the train of thought Symington had sparked in his mind. Was it really a coincidence that the remains had been uncovered just when the district nurse began getting messages from her dead father? In his line of work, coincidences happened all the time; some were connected, some were not. However, they always raised his hackles.

  He went in search of Brian Scott.

  As he had expected, the redoubtable DS was in the small canteen, eating a large bowl of pasta washed down by a glass of milk.

  ‘Should you be eating that? You’ve got to pound the pavements tomorrow, remember.’

  ‘Oh aye, this is what you need tae get you up tae scratch, Jimmy. All they top athletes fuel up on this kind o’ stuff before a big race,’ he said, before taking another forkful.

  Quietly, Daley had been impressed by the change in Scott since he’d given up booze. He looked trim – not that he’d ever carried much extra weight – and sharper, more alive. It had been a clever idea to combine his abstinence with regular physical exercise. As Scott said himself, this had a lot to do with filling the time that used to be devoted to drinking. Daley had wondered if his friend would keep it up for more than a few weeks, but here he was, sober and fit, seemingly as addicted to healthy living as he had been to alcohol. Daley had seen it before; reformed drug users throwing themselves into good works, becoming evangelists for health, spirituality, charity, sport – all manner of things.

  As he noticed the changes in Scott, he felt even more disgusted by his own failings. Since he’d split with Liz and Mary had died he was certainly drinking much more than was good for him, as well as eating unhealthily and getting no exercise. His meals consisted of sandwiches on the run, takeaway meals, or microwaved fare that all tasted much the same. He could barely remember the last time he’d sat down to a home cooked meal – apart from the excellent breakfast Hamish had made for him, that was.

  ‘They’ve sent a special kit down for you to wear,’ he told Scott.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, running vest and shorts, all emblazoned with the new jaggy thistle.’

  ‘The Polis Scotland logo?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. You’re to be the feature of the next in-house magazine. The perfect example to new recruits: a detective in his fifties, making sure he stays fit and healthy in order to be able to carry out his duties to optimum efficiency. We’re all very proud.’

  ‘Bollocks. They should have come tae see me a few months ago, when I was howling at the moon and seeing the walls move. Fuck me, I’ll be like a walking recruitment board.’

  ‘Who’d have thought it, the new force poster boy!’

  ‘They should use you, tae – me and you – before and after.’

  ‘Touché, Brian.’

  ‘I knew fine you was going tae say that, Jimmy. I don’t know how many times you’ve come oot wae it o’er the years and I’ve still no’ got a clue what it means.’

  ‘Come on, Mo Farah, we need to go and have a wee chat with this Colin Galt. Then we want to start collating what the lads are getting door-to-door.’

  ‘Mo Farah? I think I’m mair a Steve Ovett kind o’ guy.’

  The pair left the office and headed out into the warm afternoon. Men in council boiler suits were busy hanging bunting across Main Street, while the little roundabout at the bottom of the road beside th
e grand sandstone hotel on the seafront was a blaze of floral colour: red, purple, yellow and white flowers all caught the eye. Just beyond, along the esplanade, flags of various colours and designs flapped lazily in the sea breeze while a flock of seagulls descended on a couple of holidaymakers who had made the mistake of eating fish and chips beside their lochside patch. Yellow traffic cones were arranged on both sides of the road, marking the route of the marathon the next day.

  Some shopkeepers were busy erecting pop-up stalls, ready to serve pizzas, burgers, drinks, fancy goods, hats, flags, toys, balloons, and anything else of which the fine entrepreneurs of Kinloch could conceive. Apart from local spectators, a large crowd of tourists was expected for what had become an annual event: a homecoming, as well as an opportunity for tourists to sample the allure of this west coast town for themselves.

  ‘Right bonnie, Jimmy, eh?’

  ‘Yup, they do a good job,’ replied Daley as he swung the car left on to what was known locally as the back road.

  They drove past the town’s swimming pool and leisure centre until they came to a yard where sat three lorries and some plant equipment. An old cattle float, stripped of its awning, was being painted by a couple of workmen, no doubt for the pageant that was due to precede the race the next day.

  ‘Is Mr Galt aboot?’ enquired Scott.

  ‘Doon there in the offices,’ replied a man brandishing a paint brush. ‘He’s in there noo – there’s his car.’

  Daley and Scott walked towards a one-storey office block at the very end of the yard, skirting past the brown puddles slicked with rainbow films of oil from the vehicles that were kept there. In front of the building sat a few parked cars and an orange van bearing the company logo. Scott shaded his eyes as he peered through the windows of a large Mercedes.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, nodding his head in approval. ‘Ever think you’re in the wrong job, Jimmy?’