‘Right! Everyone calm down,’ Gilligan snapped. ‘Now, McConnachie, get your wits about you, man, and tell me what you think you heard.’
‘O’er there, s-sir,’ replied the schoolboy, his voice wavering and finger shaking as he pointed towards the gorse bushes.
‘And let me think, just what were you doing over there? Against my specific instructions about not leaving the grounds of the castle, too.’
‘It’s like a screeching, sir. Like a lassie screaming, man.’
‘Probably the collective voices of long-dead teachers bemoaning the hopeless nature of their chosen profession.’
‘Shouldn’t we take a look?’ said Miss Sharp.
‘Oh, all right. Come with me, McConnachie, and show us all where you heard this – this nonsense.’
‘You go first, sir,’ said McConnachie, holding back.
‘I don’t know what’s happening to young men these days,’ muttered Gilligan, following his pupil’s directions. He made his way around the gorse, his class trailing after him in a long line, headed by Miss Sharp.
‘O’er there,’ said McConnachie. ‘Jeest on that stone – the one wae the moss on it, sir.’
Gilligan plodded off through the thick wet grass until he reached the large flagstone, quite surprised when his feet settled on less sodden ground. He cocked his head, a pained expression on his face. ‘Be quiet! Let me hear this.’ He knelt down on the stone, rubbing around the mossy surface with his gloved hand. ‘What the hell is this?’ he said, turning to Miss Sharp, now at his side.
From beneath the large flat stone, the voice was muffled, distant, but frantic and unmistakable. ‘Help me, please God, help me!’
30
What Daley saw first was a white minibus, windows steamed up with condensation caused by the breath of the excited chatter of the pupils within. He noticed two figures standing by the bus, one of whom he recognised as a teacher from the local secondary school.
‘Mr Gilchrist, is that right?’ he asked.
‘Gilligan, DCI Daley. But not a bad effort, considering you and I only met briefly at the school when you addressed my class – a talk on the dangers of legal highs, if I recall.’
‘Ah, yes. Apologies. I meet so many people in the course of my work that names tend to drift away.’
As he spoke, the personnel from Kinloch’s Fire and Rescue service appeared over the rise, complete with what looked like digging equipment and a generator, all pulled behind a stout red Land Rover.
‘Can you point us to the spot you first heard the shouting, Mr Gilligan?’
‘Yes, just follow me. The worrying aspect to all this is that though I heard the voice myself – quite distinctly, in fact – it was only once. Despite my calls, I heard nothing else in return.’ He stepped awkwardly over the remnant of an ancient wall as they made their way towards the line of gorse bushes.
‘Who was the first person to hear this calling, Mr Gilligan?’
‘Oh, young McConnachie. One of our less enthusiastic pupils and more disruptive influences, I’m sad to say. I must confess, I enjoyed the look of terror on his face rather more than I should have when he came rushing to tell his tale. I hope that doesn’t sound too unworthy of my profession, Chief Inspector?’
‘Not at all. I know all about dealing with difficult adolescents. Large part of a young cop’s life – usually wrestling with them outside some licensed premises or other.’
Once Gilligan had circumnavigated the bushes he stopped. ‘Here we are. You’ll note that the conditions underfoot feel rather different here.’
Daley stared down, taking in every detail of the scene before him. ‘I also notice this,’ he replied, kneeling down stiffly on one knee. He pushed his big hands into the rough grass, and as though he was peeling off a sticker from some packaging hauled up a great piece of turf. Though covered by wild grass on top, the great sod was squarely cut, with neat edges. Beneath it lay another grey flagstone.
‘Well, bugger me,’ spluttered Gilligan, who then looked around nervously lest his pupils had heard such profanity from the mouth of their teacher.
After a few words between Daley and the officer in charge, the Fire and Rescue service got to work.
Glasgow, 1994
WPC Margaret Baird had ten years’ police service, and despite not being a full-time CID officer was used to being seconded to various units for this or that operation. Indeed, she had been offered a permanent position as a detective on numerous occasions, but preferred her role as a uniformed beat officer. She liked her old haunts where she had illicit tea breaks: her visits to the old folks’ home, the high school, and the homeless hostel, all to be found on her beat. Her regular patrol of the row of shops she was responsible for provided her with tip-offs that had led to the capture of many a petty criminal – and indeed, some not so petty.
Only a few years ago, she had gleaned information at the local hairdressers leading to the arrest of one of Glasgow’s most feared crime lord’s favourite lieutenants. In turn, this had brought her face to face with the man himself, when he hopped out of a large black German sports car and – breathing whisky fumes into her face as he challenged her toe to toe – intimated that a repeat of this feat of detection would lead to her untimely and viscerally painful demise.
This had worried her for a while – not the threat, but how James Machie had come to know of her involvement. Her name had purposely been left out of the case notes, and as far as she knew, no one apart from the investigating team had been aware of her role in the conviction.
It could mean only one thing, of course: Machie had been alerted by one of her colleagues.
This, as well as making her doubt the career she had chosen, confirmed her gut feeling that she was happy being a good, old-fashioned community cop.
Yet here she was in the main office of the Serious Crime Squad, make-up plastered on her face, wearing a skirt that barely merited the name, given the paucity of cloth used to make it.
‘Aye, you scrub up well, Maggie,’ said Speirs.
‘Beats me how you can’t use one of your own WDCs for this,’ she replied.
‘Their faces are too well known, kid. We have tae assume that oor killer – or this imaginary friend of his oor acting DS is so keen on – may have knowledge of the squad. Naebody outside the Toonheid knows who the fuck you are.’
‘You’ve a lovely turn o’ phrase,’ observed DC Scott.
‘You’ve a lovely turn o’ phrase, Sergeant, son. Don’t come the auld soldier wae me – got it?’ he spat.
‘Now, now, boys. Let’s keep it civil,’ said Baird, adjusting her black stockings. ‘Here, don’t you think I look more like a hooker than a lassie off on a night out?’
‘Nah. Mind it’s Grab a Granny night. You auld birds have to display mair plumage tae pull a mate,’ said Speirs.
‘I’ll have you know I’m no’ even forty yet!’ she protested.
‘Is that no’ the average age of a granny up in the Toonheid?’
Before she could reply, Daley entered the room, eyes fixed on the file he was reading.
‘Watch oot, Maggie, here’s Hercule. This crap is all his idea.’ This time Speirs’s sneer was plain to see.
Daley looked up from his reading material and smiled. ‘You’ll do the job nicely, Maggie,’ he said. The pair had worked together when he was a probationer, and he had a lot of respect for her as a person and as a police officer.
‘Right, Jimmy, son. Can we go through this again?’
‘Of course.’
‘I go into the club on my tod – sit at the bar, or whatever, right?’
‘Yup.’
‘How come you’ve chosen that dive on Clyde Street?’ she enquired.
‘Our killer never uses the same club twice. Even Glasgow has a limited number of establishments that have these kinds of nights. We just had to make an educated guess.’
‘Whit, based on your long experience in the job? You’re barely oot the wrapper,’ scoffed Speirs.
‘Based on the fact that we know our killer likes seedier establishments away from the likes of Sauchiehall Street. Based on the fact that he has used mostly backstreet clubs in the area near the river, away from CCTV coverage. And based on a discussion with the ACC.’
Speirs shook his head, his face bearing a mirthless grin. ‘Fucking smart arse,’ he said under his breath as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘He sure failed at charm school, eh?’ suggested Scott. ‘I bet you the trees are full o’ birds where he stays.’
‘He’s always been like that,’ said Baird. ‘Story is that his uncle was an ACC in the old Lanarkshire Constabulary. Otherwise he’d never have sniffed the job.’
‘The cleansing department’s loss is oor gain.’
Daley looked at his watch. ‘Right, Maggie, let’s go for it. And remember, there’s cops watching your back – some of them armed – both inside and outside the club.’
‘Is that supposed to cheer me up? Mind, I did a stint doon at the shooting range in Oxford Street – och, back in the days they couldn’t think o’ anything for us women to do. None o’ them could hit a barn door at two paces!’
‘I’ve failed three times,’ said Scott ruefully.
‘That’s because you’ve usually been on a bender the night before,’ said Daley.
‘Och, you know fine how I hate loud bangs. Do you know, Maggie? I’ve this recurring dream o’ being shot and falling headlong intae the sand.’ He shook his head.
‘Well, son, you know my advice,’ said Baird.
‘What?’
‘Don’t go to Largs for your holidays. Noo, Jimmy, can we get going, or I’ll need the cludgie again.’
The hills above Machrie, the present
There they were, two figures on the sheep-dotted hillside, across a small valley. Though the pair were crouching on the ground behind some bulky tufts of grass, they were visible to the police officers who faced them, four high-powered rifles trained on them, red dots playing a game of catch me if you can in the gun sights.
‘Right, Inspector, well done.’
‘They must be cold, wet and exhausted, ma’am.’
‘Which may lead to a certain desperation? I hear you,’ she replied.
‘Oh, here we go,’ muttered Scott. ‘Me in the path of another desperado wae a shooter determined tae blow my heid off.’
Symington glared at him. ‘Please shut up, DS Scott. If you don’t have what it takes to do your duty here, get back to Kinloch and we’ll find you a cosy desk job.’ She spat out the words, leaving Scott in no doubt who was in charge.
Scott’s face shone red and he turned to face his young superior. ‘I’ve been near killed twice by men wae guns. I’m sure none of us here doesn’t have something from their past that scares them.’ He paused, staring at her with a blank expression. ‘Is that no’ right, ma’am?’
The rage she felt at the use of the exaggerated title almost made her rise to her feet in anger. Sensing this, Scott put his arm on her shoulder.
‘I apologise, ma’am. Fear can dae nasty things tae a man.’
‘And a woman,’ she said emphatically, turning her head from him, eyes blazing.
The crack of a gunshot screamed overhead, sending all those but the firearm’s unit forcing their faces into the ground.
‘We have him in our sights, ma’am. I strongly advise that we take him out.’
‘Not a kill shot, if possible.’
‘If that’s an order, I can’t comply, ma’am. We’ll do our best, but this is no exact science. The call and its consequences are yours.’
For a moment, Scott felt a pang of sympathy for this woman forced to make life or death decisions on this windswept hillside. Then he thought about her attitude towards him since he’d saved her career, her big salary, her pension and her position of authority over experienced men like himself. Aye, this is why the big cheque lands on your doorstep, my dear, he thought to himself. Hell mend you.
Another shot made them duck for cover.
‘At your discretion, Inspector. Try your best.’
‘Will do, ma’am.’ He spoke into his lapel mic. ‘A4 defensive return of fire – non-fatal if possible.’
These words had barely left his lips when a shot rang out and one of the figures across the valley went limp and began to slide from behind a protective tuft, accompanied by a high-pitched scream.
Scott shuddered. He knew how that felt. It was a pain he could never forget.
31
To the obvious disappointment of the pupils – and their teachers – Daley asked that the school party return to Kinloch as the Fire and Rescue service got to work. The pursuit on the hills above Machrie and the dangers involved were on his mind.
He watched the minibus make its way along the rough track away from the castle, then switched his attention to the careful lifting of great sods of turf that was revealing more flagstones.
Then, as they pulled away another layer of turf, there was a collective gasp when a very modern-looking iron cover was revealed; round, painted black, with a diameter of about three feet. It was a simple wrought-iron drain cover, unremarkable, to be found across the land.
‘Looks as though the teacher wasn’t the first to happen upon this well, or whatever it is,’ remarked Stacey Marr, the senior fire officer.
‘Indeed,’ replied Daley. He kneeled on the flagstones and ran his hand across the iron circle. ‘Who owns this land, does anyone know?’
‘Kevin Finnerty, I think,’ said Marr. ‘His farmhouse is just up on the rise. Robertson, take a quick hike up there and see if he knows anything about this. Mind you, if it is as it looks – a drain cover – how on earth did Gilligan and his pupils hear someone calling out?’
‘And why cover it with turf?’ said Daley. ‘Not just that, but freshly laid turf, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Indeed,’ said Marr. ‘Also, as you might guess, I’m no stranger to fire hydrants – much the same thing – and that cover has been removed recently.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked Daley.
‘Simple detection, DCI Daley.’ She smiled. ‘Look at these two slots.’ She pointed to two rectangular gaps, each a few centimetres long by a couple wide, situated on either side of the middle of the iron construction and equidistant from it.
‘They’re there to yank the thing out, right?’
‘Yup, DCI Daley – well put,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Sorry, I’ve never been a very practical man. Much to my father’s chagrin,’ he added more quietly. The sudden memory of his father showing him around the intricacies of plumbing suddenly sprang to mind. It was one of several other such attempted tutorials that had bored him to tears – one of the many reasons he’d joined the police rather than learn a trade.
‘Well, I’d hazard a guess that this is a relatively new drain cover. In fact, I had to remove an almost identical one a few months ago when we had that flood in Kinloch.’
‘Oh yes, I remember. Brian – my sergeant – was out buying rolls. To cut a long story short, he stepped off the kerb into the flooded street only to land in a pothole in the road, fall over, and watch our breakfast floating down Main Street.’
‘Well, anyway,’ said Marr, clearly anxious to get on. ‘Look at the slots. The metal inside is bare; the protective paint has been scraped off with use.’
‘Sorry to sound ignorant, but is that not to be expected?’
‘Certainly, but to a drain cover hidden under a mound of turf? I would say unlikely. This cover has been removed recently – aye, and not just once or twice.’
Just as the words issued from her mouth, everyone froze as a piercing scream sounded beneath the drain cover.
‘Quick, lads,’ shouted Marr. ‘Get this off!’
Glasgow, 1994
Maggie Baird had always hated nightclubs, even when she was young. Noisy, smelly places, where the drink was too expensive, more than likely watered down and where you spent half the ni
ght in the queue for the Ladies. She always reasoned that the chance of meeting the man of her dreams in such places was almost non-existent.
The man of her dreams. This individual still eluded her. In her heart, she realised that the tall, handsome, kind, faithful companion she craved didn’t, in all probability, exist. She had a number of failed – badly failed – relationships under her belt, and had more or less given up hope of ever meeting the person with whom she could settle down.
She looked absently about the bar at which she sat on a high stool. The dance floor was in the next room, accessed by a few deep steps, the entrance a tacky faux proscenium arch. Despite this, even down here the music was almost deafening, and she was doubtful whether if anyone were to try to engage her in conversation she would be able to hear what was being said.
The bar was covered in a paint that made it sparkle under the array of coloured lights. She drained her glass and held it out, mouthing ‘vodka and tonic’ to a young barman with a nice arse. He smiled, took the glass from her and returned with a newly filled one, hand held out, intent on payment.
‘Two pounds seventy – you should hang your head in shame,’ she shouted above the din. ‘Sixth o’ a gill measure, tae.’ He smiled and winked back at her before rushing off to serve the next customer.
The room was mostly occupied by women in their late thirties and – in many cases – well beyond. She’d considered her own make-up gaudy, but now, seeing some of her fellow clubbers, decided that she looked almost dowdy. One woman, whom Baird reckoned to be in her mid-fifties, was so caked in make-up it would have been impossible to recognise her without it. Light blue glittering eye shadow above false lashes, silver-tipped and at least an inch long, fought for attention against the backdrop of the thick orange carapace covering her face. Her lips were plastered in the brightest red lipstick Baird had ever seen, while her eyebrows were mere thin lines, drawn unevenly on to her forehead, one higher and more arched than the other. Her little black number revealed a plunging neckline and a pendulous belly, all propped up by thin legs with small ankles but burgeoning calf muscles, giving her an almost masculine aspect. In fact, Maggie genuinely wondered if she was in fact male.
The Relentless Tide Page 21