Suddenly, in his mind, Daley was back in Glasgow, more than twenty years ago.
28
Glasgow, 1994
A group of detectives sat in the muster room at Pitt Street, Strathclyde Police HQ in Glasgow.
This room had been newly designated smoke free, and there were disgruntled murmurs as hardened smokers suddenly found nothing to do with their hands. By way of compensation, the coffee machine was much busier, the beverage being used in the absence of tobacco.
At the head of the large room, DI Graham was flanked by DS Speirs and acting DS Daley. Behind him, a carousel projector hummed as it beamed a square white patch onto a screen on the wall.
‘Right, ladies and gentlemen, let’s settle down, shall we?’ As the room came to order Graham alighted from his seat and walked to the projector, picked up a small remote control and pressed a button. One by one, the faces of women reckoned to be victims of the Midweek Murderer flashed by. The final three images were accompanied by thick crosses in red felt pen, indicating that their remains were as yet undiscovered, though the circumstances under which they had disappeared were identical to those of the wretched women whose bodies had been found. Graham left the last image on the screen.
‘This is Anne Marie McKean. As you know, she disappeared last Wednesday from the Palace Club. Same MO as the rest, but as yet – as you also know – we have no body.’
‘You’re convinced she’s a victim, gaffer?’
‘Yes, DS Speirs. I know we found the earlier victims very easily – too easily, in my opinion. But I think this poor girl and the previous two women are also victims.’
‘So what’s changed, sir?’ asked a voice from the floor.
‘What’s changed, Charlie, is that I believe our killer has had a close shave. He was taunting us before; now, for some reason, he has to be more careful.’
‘You sure he’s no’ just fed up sneaking corpses intae various parts of the city, sir?’ asked Speirs. ‘Might even be a copycat.’
‘As you know, Bobby, it’s hard to fathom the mind of a killer. But from all the advice we’ve had from our profiler guy, we’re sure the same hand is at work.’
‘So, it’s not some other sick bastard, sir?’ came another voice from the floor.
‘No, not in my opinion, Amy.’
‘Or the guy fae California,’ opined Speirs somewhat dismissively.
DI Graham clicked the button on the remote control once more. On screen the frontages of five Glasgow nightclubs appeared. ‘Again, as you know, these are the places from where our victims went missing. We’ve tried discreet observation at each of the premises over the last few weeks, but come up with nothing. However, we have new information.’ There was a murmur of interest from the collected detectives. ‘DS Daley, the floor is yours.’
Daley cleared his throat and stood. ‘As we know, examination of the victims we have prove that sexual intercourse with a male took place near or soon after death. We’ve always believed that the victims were entrapped, coerced in some way to leave the clubs by the killer himself. Now we’re not sure. We think he might be using a proxy.’
Speirs leaned forward in his chair and addressed Daley, his head craning up to look the tall detective directly in the face. ‘You mean you think a proxy might be being used. I think that theory is pish.’ This elicited sniggers from the floor.
Undaunted, Daley continued. ‘The information we have is pretty conclusive. It would appear that our victims are being led to the killer by a third party, or parties. We have a number of theories as to how this is happening, but we now reckon each of these women has somehow been befriended by someone working in concert with our killer.’
Quiet chatter now filled the room. Until now, it had been assumed that the unfortunate victims had been picked up by the murderer himself. After all, this was the pattern with which detectives across the globe had become familiar. A charismatic psychopath charming an unsuspecting victim to death: it was a classic scenario.
‘I want tae make a point,’ said Speirs, standing and indicating to Daley that he should resume his seat. His young colleague shrugged, but remained standing. ‘Anyhow,’ Speirs continued, glaring at the acting DS, ‘this is the opinion o’ this new-fangled profiler young Daley here was keen tae employ. In my opinion, it’s mistaken. I mean, the guy’s never even been tae Glasgow. We fax him, and he faxes back.’ He paused. ‘Wae the greatest o’ respect, sir,’ he turned to DI Graham, ‘I don’t think this is the right way tae go about things. I want my opposition to this line of inquiry noted.’
Graham addressed his number two in the Serious Crime Squad. ‘We’ve been through this. These profilers are used all the time in the States, aye, and down south by the Met. Times change, Bobby. If the generations of police officers that came before us hadn’t been receptive to change – progress – we’d still be back in the dark ages in terms of detection. We’re standing at the threshold of new procedures and techniques that will transform the way we do our job. This is one of them. Just sit down and listen, DS Speirs.’
Again, Daley cleared his throat, emboldened by a wink from Brian Scott sitting in the third row, thoroughly enjoying Speirs’s humiliation.
‘We intend to set a trap for this third party.’ Daley turned back to the projector. ‘And this is what we’ll do.’
Kinloch, the present
History teacher Allan Gilligan had been taking students from Kinloch Academy to the ruins of the old castle high on the hills just outside the town for almost thirty years. Still, he worried that one of his more headstrong pupils would ignore the warnings and plummet down the sheer drop on to the rocky shoreline far below. The proximity of the high cliffs with the broiling sea eating at their base always worried him.
Along with his colleague, he drilled the importance of staying close together and – for once – doing what they were told. There had been an incident only four years ago, when in order to impress his female classmates a testosterone-fuelled teenage boy had jumped from what was left of a wall, only to break his ankle on the uneven ground below. A nurse and ambulance had arrived very quickly to save the day, but now, staring out over the restless sound under the lowering grey sky, Gilligan began to worry that another disaster was imminent.
This kind of fretting was part of who he was. The very trait he’d chastised his late father for had now become his own bête noir. In short, he was a worrier, much happier imparting wisdom in the classroom than being responsible for field trips. However, he realised that such visits could spark a passion for history in a young mind that could last for ever; something a dusty old book, or even a flickering computer screen, could never do.
‘Right, you lot, stay here within the ruins. Do not climb, do not wander off, do not damage anything – just behave!’ This admonishment was greeted by the same collective groan he’d been hearing for almost three decades, but he hoped that the glare he directed at each of his fifteen charges would emphasise the warning. ‘Now, gather round.’ Somewhat reluctantly the small group of teenagers arranged themselves in a rough circle around himself and his teaching assistant Courtenay Sharp.
‘As you know, these are the fourteenth-century remains of Killcallan Castle. To whom did this once fine fortification belong?’ He looked around the group, unsurprised when a stout girl with dark brown hair and thick glasses raised her hand almost immediately. ‘Yes, Sheridan, enlighten us all.’
‘Archibald Campbell, the third earl, sir.’
‘Absolutely correct, Sheridan, well done. And it is rumoured that that infamous family helped themselves to this place when its previous occupant, Somerled, Lord of the Isles, was killed by the crown. That’s still speculation, mark you.’ Noticing that the attention of his charges was already on the wane, he changed tack. ‘Now, what are we really looking for?’ He looked around again. ‘No, not you this time, Sheridan. Let’s try someone else . . . you, Malcolm McConnachie.’
The young man with red hair looked about, then grinned. ‘Is it buried
treasure, sir?’ he said, sniggering at the intentional simplicity of his reply.
‘No. Try again, McConnachie.’
The boy rolled his eyes. ‘It’s the hole thing.’
‘The hole thing? No need to guess what’s on your mind most of the day.’ Gilligan paused to enjoy the giggling this elicited. ‘What hole thing?’
‘Ach, I canna mind whoot it’s called – something French, sir.’
‘Anyone?’ asked Gilligan, opening the question to the floor, knowing from where the answer would come.
‘Oubliette, sir,’ shouted Sheridan, a smug look on her face.
‘I sometimes wonder if you’re the only person who listens to what I’m saying, my dear. Yes, the famous oubliette. A particularly secure form of medieval dungeon. Tell me why it’s so secure, McConnachie.’
‘Whoot?’
‘Why is it almost impossible to escape from an oubliette?’
‘Oh, right – even I know the answer tae that yin, sir. It’s cos there’s nae door.’
‘Well done, Mr McConnachie. There’s nae door. We know Killcallan had a particularly claustrophobic oubliette, very narrow in circumference and very deep. It is immortalised in the Annals of Thomas Whey, an unfortunate English visitor who spent almost a year in it. There’s also a reference in Barbour’s poem to the “dark hole o’ Killcallan”. I knew you’d find that funny, McConnachie. Maybe you can tell us what’s unusual about this notorious prison cell?’
‘I know that tae, sir.’
‘Wonders will indeed never cease. Pray, do enlighten us, Malcolm.’
‘Nae bugger knows where it is, sir.’
‘How well put. However, you’re right. The oubliette, though much discussed by historians and local folk, has never been found. So, it’s time to make a name for yourselves and Kinloch Academy by finding this semi-mythical structure, while Miss Sharp and I enjoy a cup of coffee.’
‘Whoot aboot the ghost, sir?’ asked a timid-looking girl, the hood of her rain jacket pulled forward over her forehead. ‘I heard it’s the earl’s wife.’
Hearing this, a number of her classmates – notably Malcolm McConnachie – burst into gales of laughter.
‘Okay, calm down, you lot. Let me tell you, Mandy. There’s not a castle in the world that isn’t populated by some sort of ghost or other. I’ve been coming here for thirty years and rest assured I’ve never seen any ghosts. Just enthusiastic students taking in what they’re seeing and writing sensible essays on same to help them with the continuous assessment part of their exams. So, my advice is to brave the ghost, remember the oubliette, think of your grades and get on with it!’
As his students headed off to explore what was left of Killcallan Castle, the young teaching assistant poured steaming coffee into two plastic mugs from a thermos flask.
‘Wouldn’t it be great if they found it, Allan,’ she said, handing him a mug.
‘What, the ghost?’
‘No, the oubliette.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. I’m not really sure it ever existed. And even if it did, it’s likely buried under a few feet of earth and grass. It’ll take more than the fine young girls and boys of S4 to find that; the archaeologists have been searching for decades. Still, it’ll keep them amused for a while.’ He looked up at the dark grey sky, mirrored by the waves in the sound. ‘At least the rain’s still off. Oh, we have biscuits. Thank you, Courtenay, how thoughtful.’
29
The line of dark-clad police officers stretched across the high moor atop the majestic sea cliffs. It was almost 10 a.m., and no sign of the two people for whom they were searching.
Symington stopped to answer her phone, nodding silently then ending the call with a word of thanks.
‘Don’t tell me, ma’am. Nae joy – am I right?’ said Scott, drawing deeply on a cigarette.
‘No, not at the moment, but plenty of time, Brian.’
‘Plenty o’ time for me tae freeze and be soaked to death by turns. I’m just drying off, then another bloody shower of rain appears o’er the horizon.’
‘Much more likely smoking will kill you first. We’re hardly slogging across the tundra, are we? It’s springtime, after all.’
‘I’ve always hated bloody searches. Nine times oot o’ ten we find nothing, and all you get for your pains is blisters on your feet, an’ a cauld.’ He flicked his cigarette away and watched it tumbling in the strong wind.
‘Very environmentally friendly, DS Scott. If you were anyone else, I’d make sure you were given a fixed penalty fine for that.’
‘I’d happily pay the fine if this wind would just drop and we could get the chopper up here.’
Symington shrugged her shoulders then plodded on. They were walking across a broad clifftop. ‘So you reckon these marine archaeologists have something to do with this?’
‘Best guess, ma’am. It’s all a bit coincidental, is it no’? Big find o’ illicit booty, no sign o’ them. Looks tae me as though Francombe’s no’ been paying enough attention to her staff.’
‘You can hardly blame her if some of her charges have gone rogue. It’s like me taking the hit for the actions of one of my more wayward officers.’ She smiled at Scott, knowing she had much to do in order to regain his trust, having had reason to reinforce her authority over him a few weeks before. Though she liked and respected Scott – was indebted to him, even – it was easy to foresee a scenario whereby she had to answer for some of his less conventional methods.
‘Aye, touché,’ said Scott.
There was a distant crack, which made the heads of every officer on the hillside turn towards the noise. In seconds, the chief superintendent’s radio burst into life.
‘Two-twenty. We’ve got them, ma’am. One shot fired by the suspects, no injuries.’
‘Give me the coordinates, two-twenty.’ Hurriedly, she typed numbers into her navigation device, looking to her left towards a small rise. ‘Roger, got it, two-twenty. Make sure everyone is safe – leave this to the firearms officers. I’ll send more your way. We’ll follow, but my priority is the safety of all those on the ground. We know that whoever is using this weapon is pretty competent.’ She ended the conversation and briefed the inspector of the firearms detachment.
Soon, led by the armed officers, the entire search party focused its attention on a broad stretch of boggy ground at the foot of a steep incline.
‘Who says we never find anything, Brian?’
‘As long as they don’t find us, ma’am. Keep your heid doon and let the boys wae the guns sort this.’
‘Once they’ve secured this piece of ground here, you and I will move forward. I’m in charge of the operation, remember.’
‘I’m no’!’
‘But you have the experience, DS Scott.’
‘Aye, the experience o’ getting shot – no’ one I want tae repeat. Is there no’ a boat I can go on?’
Symington listened to another brief message and the pair crouched forward, one much more willingly than the other.
Malcolm McConnachie looked about. When he realised neither Mr Gilligan nor Miss Sharp was in his eyeline, he fished a battered packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
He looked round for a suitable location in which to enjoy a quick smoke undetected. It was too risky to chance it within the confines of the ruins, but looking across to his left he noticed a line of gorse bushes, their yellow flowers bright in the dull light. He slouched towards the end of the hedge, looking back to make sure neither Mr Gilligan nor his assistant could see him.
Soon he was on the other side of the bush, searching about for a suitable perch. He frowned when all he could find was a moss-covered flagstone, but it beat sitting on the wet ground, and he was delighted to note that despite the slimy moss the ground here was not as saturated as the rest of the field.
He took off his jacket and used it to cover the stone, then sat down, placing a cigarette between his lips and setting the tip aglow with a lighter from his pocket. He’d only
been smoking for a few months, but already the effect of the bitter smoke was to make him relax as he sighed at the pleasures of nicotine, too young to give a moment’s thought to its more lethal properties. He was young, and therefore immortal.
His mobile phone began to buzz in his pocket, banishing this existential peace. He wrestled it from his jacket, and smiled when he saw the name on the screen. ‘Pogo, man, how’s it hangin’?’ The response sent him into a fit of laughter. ‘She’s so hot! How did an ugly bastard like you manage tae pull a chick like her?’
Almost forgetting the illicit nature of what he was doing, McConnachie let rip with a belly laugh, which sent him into a paroxysm of coughing. ‘Aw, stop, Pogo, man. I’m up at that auld castle wae auld Gilligan and Miss Sharp. Having a fly fag, man.’
As he said this, McConnachie became aware of another sound. At first he thought it was the wind groaning off the nearby cliffs. But as he ended the call and listened more intently, what he was hearing seemed more akin to wailing. He shot up off the flagstone, flicking the cigarette across the wet field and letting his mobile tumble on to the ground. Quickly, he picked it up and ran full pelt round to the other side of the gorse and back towards the ruins of the castle.
‘No running, McConnachie,’ roared Gilligan, seeing his errant pupil vaulting a short wall. ‘What on earth’s wrong with you?’ Then he noticed that McConnachie seemed unable to speak. ‘Good grief, boy, I know you’re normally pale under that red hair, but you’re white as sheet. If you’ve been taking drugs . . .’
‘I think I heard the ghost, s-sir.’
‘The what? I don’t expect much from you, McConnachie, but even so I didn’t think you’d display this ridiculous hysteria.’
Hearing what was going on, and seeing the state of alarm afflicting her normally cool classmate, Mandy began to scream, and was soon joined by other members of the class, wondering what had happened to their red-haired companion.
The Relentless Tide Page 20