The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘But, as I know you suspect, it’s all too convenient – even down to this fight that broke out of nowhere. Far too convenient.’

  ‘You think the fight was pre-arranged?’ Daley looked surprised. Even he hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ He stood up, taking his raincoat from a peg and donning his trilby hat. ‘But what has happened has happened. I blame myself – I should have taken direct charge of the operation. In the meantime, before I have to face the bosses, we have to take a trip to the lab.’

  ‘What for, sir?’

  ‘Something to do with Ian’s murder. Come with me, Daley. But please, be aware your career – all of our careers – are on a knife edge.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Daley, struggling to believe he wasn’t already back walking the beat.

  35

  Kinloch, the present

  Daley still had detectives checking out locals who’d had cause to travel regularly to Glasgow during the time of the Midweek Murders – and there were many, as Sergeant Shaw had pointed out. So while his team concentrated on this he decided to check the credentials – and anything else known – of the archaeological team.

  In the main, he found them to be young graduates bolstered by a couple of undergraduate volunteers. Bernard Evans was still recovering from his wounds at the local hospital. Despite being in no real danger health-wise, police were still being denied access to interview him, something that irritated the chief inspector. However, Daley now knew where he’d gained his prowess with a rifle: Evans had spent three years in the army.

  Having lost interest in military life, he trained as an archaeologist and took a diving course. From then on, he’d worked on underwater sites, meeting his partner in work and life – Marion – on his first proper job. It appeared they’d been together for three years, and were well respected in the archaeological community.

  Despite the difference in ages – he’d just turned thirty, she was almost forty-eight – their relationship appeared to have been strong and enduring. Until now, that was.

  Daley couldn’t help but wonder how his own relationship with Mary Dunn might have turned out. He’d always suspected that he’d become less and less appealing to her as he entered late middle age. As it turned out, heartbreakingly, there had been no need to worry.

  He dragged his thoughts back to the task in hand, and turned to the information on Marion.

  He was surprised to note that she didn’t hail from an upper-class family, despite her lofty accent and double-barrelled surname. As it turned out, her father, Arthur Browne, a shipbuilder from Tyneside, had married her mother, Doreen Smyth, then employed at the same yard as a typist. Both came from working-class stock. Marion had changed her name by deed-poll when she went up to Oxford.

  Clearly Marion had done what she thought was her best to cover up her humble origins by the change of name and accent, which in itself was revealing, Daley thought.

  Her work had taken her across the globe, and she was highly respected in her field. There seemed to be nothing to indicate she would become involved in an elaborate scheme to rob the nation of its antiquities – or maybe this was just the first time she’d been caught.

  As ever, the cynical mind of the world-weary copper pondered the worst.

  Daley was just about to read what had been found on the formidable site director, Professor Anthea Francombe, when his mobile buzzed into life in his pocket.

  Liz was again emblazoned on the screen.

  As he clicked the call off without answering he instantly felt guilty. What if something had happened to his son? Reasoning this through, he realised that he’d have heard of it by now. Most likely the persistent calls were another attempt by his estranged wife to make him feel worthless and unhappy. He’d felt that for long enough; he wanted more than anything to put an end to those feelings.

  Liz would have to take her bile out on someone else.

  He clicked the mouse on his computer and began to read what his team had managed to find out about Professor Francombe.

  Glasgow, 1994

  The forensic lab exuded the usual mixture of smells, both chemical and biological. The mix was heady and unpleasant; as always, Daley could feel his stomach churn in the same way it did when he was called to the scene of a murder, or the mortuary.

  He remembered a dinner party he’d attended with Liz a few weeks before. One of her old university friends – arrogant and obnoxious by turns – wondered how Daley could possibly be squeamish about such things given the years he’d spent in the police.

  ‘I’m a bloody dentist – if you can’t get used to staring into the rotting abyss of some knuckle-dragger’s mouth, you wouldn’t last long,’ an unpleasant young man had said, looking round the table with a chuckle.

  ‘Perhaps slightly different from dragging what’s left of a child from under a bus,’ replied Daley, simultaneously silencing the room and earning a glower from Liz.

  He felt sicker than normal now. Lying on a stainless steel table, spread out like a garment ready to be ironed, lay Ian Burns’s tatty raincoat. Daley recognised it instantly. It brought with it so many memories – images of the man who’d been his mentor and friend.

  DI Graham looked at the coat and sighed. ‘You know, in all the time I knew him he never wore any other coats but these. He must have had a number over the years. But no matter where he went – work or play – there would be the beige raincoat.’

  Daley pictured it hanging on the coat stand in Burns’s old office in Stewart Street, his old black scarf draped over its collar.

  ‘Now, DC Chisholm, what have you been able to find out using these new bloody miracles of yours?’

  A stocky young man with a shock of red hair, wearing a white lab coat, stroked his chin. ‘Very little, I’m afraid, sir. There was some blood on the collar . . .’ He paused. ‘It turned out to be that of Mr Burns himself. Apart from that, just the usual grass and dirt stains associated with the locus.’

  ‘What about the body? Nothing from under the fingernails, say?’ asked Graham, glancing at Daley, who looked as though he was about to pass out.

  ‘No, nothing. You remember Ian – DCI Burns,’ said Chisholm, correcting himself. ‘Fingernails bitten to the quick. From what I’ve seen of the body and what Mr Crichton from the mortuary tells us in the pathology report, it doesn’t seem as though he had the chance to put up much of a fight. Plus, I would say the murderer has been careful – knew what he was doing – as with the letters, sir.’ This time Chisholm looked at Daley.

  Daley’s mind was spinning. He could smell pine needles, hear the ragged cries of ravens, the trickle of the tiny burn beside the stile, all under the looming shadow of Dumgoyne, as there lay Ian Burns’s lifeless body on the damp grass, surrounded by police officers. It all seemed unreal, like a scene from a film, or a particularly vivid dream.

  Silence prevailed in the sterile room for a few moments, all three of them deep in thought.

  ‘I must confess to being a tad disappointed, Duncan,’ said Graham. ‘I was under the impression that you guys could work wonders these days. Spirit bloody perpetrators out of test tubes, as they told us at the forensic lecture at a seminar I was forced to endure recently.’

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ replied Chisholm. ‘One day – one day soon, I would imagine – but though we can pull some rabbits out of hats, the forensics surrounding DCI Burns has little to offer. Things are improving all the time, though, sir. One day – well, who knows?’ He looked at them both apologetically.

  ‘What happens to his stuff now?’ asked Daley, gesturing to the raincoat.

  ‘Oh, yes – good question. Such are the advances we’re making year on year, everything is retained.’

  ‘All of the case forensic evidence?’ asked Graham.

  ‘Yes, sir. This has been in our protocols for some time.’

  ‘But you’ve no idea when some new test will turn up that could glean something
from this evidence?’

  ‘No, not yet, sir.’

  Graham and Daley left Chisholm to his work. Stepping out into the car fumes and noise of a busy Glasgow street was a genuine relief for Daley. He looked at DI Graham and said, ‘You were expecting that, sir, I think?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Graham resignedly. ‘Like DC Chisholm, I spoke to the pathologist – what’s his name? The one who smokes that infernal bloody pipe.’

  ‘Crichton, sir.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the man. If the body yielded nothing, I was pretty sure the clothes wouldn’t.’

  ‘Back to the office, sir?’

  ‘You go, Jim. I want to go somewhere quiet to think.’

  The young DS knew this to be shorthand for a visit to the Horseshoe Bar, so took his leave of DI Graham, heading back to his office with a leaden heart.

  Kinloch, the present

  After being disturbed by Liz’s call, Daley felt the need of a coffee, so he returned to his desk with a steaming mug from the machine and laid it on his desk.

  He was pondering how people change over the years – not just physically, but in almost every aspect. He pictured the Speirs he’d known years ago. He – like Brian Scott – was much the same to look at. Indeed, apart from Scott’s miraculous abandonment of alcohol, they had little changed in attitude, either. But that’s where the comparison ended. While Scott was the same rebellious but steady man every police officer would want at his side, Speirs remained sullen, arrogant and devious.

  Daley caught sight of his reflection on the glass of his office door. The years had certainly changed him. The face of a careworn middle-aged man stared back at him: overweight, unfulfilled and becoming unkempt – especially now that he had no significant other in his life.

  Duncan Chisholm had changed physically, too. From a powerfully built ladies’ man, with a shock of red hair, he’d gone grey, almost white, in the intervening years. His muscular physique had turned to fat and flab – much like himself, he thought, gloomily.

  He passed his hand across his chest, cursing the huge cooked meal Hamish had concocted for breakfast. If this continues, I’ll need the doors widened, he thought, making a note to tell his new guest that he’d enjoy coffee and a grapefruit to break his fast for the next few weeks.

  Then, from nowhere, came another memory of Chisholm. He made a mental note to act on it at the first opportunity.

  Back to the task in hand, he keyed the case number in to his computer and soon returned to the information on Francombe.

  She was a professor at a Cambridge college – a high-flyer – young for such a position, but highly respected. She’d been responsible for the discovery of some significant Roman archaeology in the last two years, and was considered a future star of the profession. Certainly, from his own experience, he knew her to be smart, methodical and in possession of the perfect personality with which to manage her team. She remained aloof, yet approachable – there was no doubt as to who was in charge when she was on site.

  Yet Daley wondered. She hadn’t been able to see through Bernie and Marion’s clandestine business.

  He scrolled down further, looking for her own qualifications and other educational and personal details provided by her present college.

  He was surprised to note that these had been redacted, thick black lines running through much of the text, leaving most of what had been provided unintelligible.

  He stepped out of his glass box and looked around the CID office. Four detectives were busy at their workstations. ‘Anyone know where DC Potts is?’

  ‘On night shift for the next two nights, sir. Giving him a rest after all that wandering about hillsides in the rain,’ replied a DC from a division Daley didn’t know.

  ‘Ping me his mobile number,’ said Daley. ‘Am I right in saying it was he who collated the background info on our archaeologists?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, sir.’

  He returned to his office and waited for the phone to ring.

  There was a sharp knock on his door. He looked up to see Speirs entering the room.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Charming, DCI Daley – no’ even the courtesy of a “good morning”.’

  ‘If you have something to contribute, take a seat. If you’re just here for some more verbals, you can . . . well, you know what you can do.’ Daley managed to hold his temper.

  ‘I give up. I was just going to tell you I was heading back to Glasgow on tonight’s flight.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but it hasn’t, so I won’t lie.’

  ‘You, lie? No’ the saintly Jim Daley. That could never happen.’

  ‘I’m just glad the bosses have seen sense and directed you to waste your time on something less challenging. Best to leave this to those of us who are still real police officers.’

  ‘That’s a sharp tongue, Jimmy. Mind you, you’ve never changed. As a matter of fact, I’m going for a meeting with the ACC. He wants an update – in person, if you please.’ Speirs smiled sickeningly.

  ‘Happy landings then,’ said Daley. His computer pinged, announcing Potts’s number on his screen.

  ‘Same to you.’

  As Speirs opened the door to leave the office, Daley called him to a halt.

  ‘While you’re up there, you might as well do something useful.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I want you to have any forensic evidence on Ian Burns’s murder case re-examined.’

  ‘Och, they did that a few years ago – found nothing. Is it no’ about time you got rid o’ this obsession? I mean, it’s well o’er twenty years ago now, man!’

  ‘I think it has a connection to this case.’

  ‘Fuck, no’ this again. Anyhow, I cannae authorise stuff like that. Remember, I’m no’ a cop any more.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bobby, I still am. I’ll phone ahead and authorise it. I want to hear back from you tomorrow on any progress. Oh, and while you’re with the ACC, please tell him I’d like a word – in person.’ It was his turn to smile.

  Speirs stared at Daley for a few heartbeats, saying nothing, shook his head, then turned on his heel and left, leaving Daley’s office door swinging open.

  He’d been able to act on his memory of Duncan Chisholm sooner than he’d thought.

  Daley was about to call Potts when his office phone rang.

  ‘Yes, DS Shaw, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve got Hamish for you, sir.’

  ‘Erm, I’m quite busy right now. Tell him I’ll phone him back.’

  Shaw hesitated on the other end of the line. ‘Actually, he sounds quite agitated, sir.’

  ‘Okay, put him through,’ Daley replied reluctantly.

  After a few clicks: ‘Hamish, what’s up? I’m a wee bit busy here. Can I give you a ring in an hour or so?’

  ‘Aye, well, you could, but the situation here’s no’ ideal, if you know what I mean.’

  Daley was sure he could hear a child crying in the background. ‘What’s happening – don’t tell me you’ve started a crèche?’

  ‘Now, well, you see, that’s no’ as daft as it sounds. I’m in your hoose.’

  ‘So what’s the problem – and who’s crying?’

  ‘I canna stay long on the phone, Mr Daley. Like you, I’m kind o’ busy; trying tae keep the big fella here from having a go at the wean. Oh, he’s a right jealous crater, right enough. Hates me paying any attention tae anyone but him – particularly weans.’

  ‘What wean – child – what’s going on up there?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know? For the love o’ the wee man, I can hardly credit it.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘I’d a visitor aboot an hour ago. She left me in charge o’ her wean.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you want me to do, Hamish. You should have said no. I’m afraid this hasn’t got anything to do with me. It’s not part of your boarding agreement, either.’

  ‘Aye, noo, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr Dal
ey.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’m currently in charge o’ your son and heir, if you please. Mrs Daley said you knew all aboot it. She left him here aboot an hour ago. Went skidding off doon the drive in a big fancy motor. And she wasna at the wheel, if you get my drift.’

  It suddenly dawned on Daley what all the calls and messages he’d been ignoring were about. ‘Give me ten minutes, Hamish. I’ll be right up.’

  ‘As quick as you can. Oor Hamish is on the prowl. Fair wild he is, tae – fit tae rip oot a throat. An’ I’m no’ as fast on my toes as I once was, you know. Forby that, I’ve no’ had much experience with weans, an’ whoot I have had – well, it’s no’ been pleasant.’

  The thought of his son being mauled by Hamish’s wildcat sent Daley leaping from his chair and heading for the door.

  36

  Professor Anthea Francombe paced to and fro across the threadbare carpet in her small room in the County Hotel. She’d had breakfast, which basically consisted of too much coffee and a few mouthfuls of muesli.

  How I hate this bloody place, she thought.

  She was to have a Skype meeting with her bosses, the college’s directors of archaeology, in the afternoon, and was at a loss as to what to tell them. Her career was in the balance.

  She cursed Evans and Smyth-Browne. They’d ruined everything.

  Of course, she should have realised there was something wrong; but the necessary pace of the research caused by the imminent destruction of the site, plus the usual paucity of manpower, had left her stretched to her very limit.

  Be honest, that’s got bugger all to with it. You know that. The words echoed unbidden in her head.

  She was failing on all levels – plain and simple. Failure was something she was not only unused to, she actively despised it.

  She reached for the room’s tiny kettle, filling it from the tap over the sink in the en suite bathroom. She walked back into the room, sat it on the top of the old chest of drawers, plugged it in, then cursed the fact she’d run out of instant coffee; the little jar beside the kettle now contained only teabags and sachets of artificial sweetener.