The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  Daley sighed, head in hands. ‘You mean, they’re still getting away with it, sir.’

  Braithwaite angled his head to one side, looking from one to the other. ‘Sorry, am I missing something?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Taylor. ‘In fact, I think we all are. Now let me speak to John Donald and end this sorry mess.’

  Paisley, the present

  A thousand memories flashed through Scott’s mind as they drove through the streets he’d policed for so long; some good, more often than not bad. They played across his mind’s eye in a bleak procession, a visceral display of police work and its unpleasant exigencies.

  The large hospital loomed in front of them as they drove up a small rise.

  ‘I bloody hate hospitals,’ said Scott.

  ‘If it wasn’t for them you wouldn’t be here, the number of close shaves you’ve had,’ said Daley.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, big man. The folk in there work miracles. Bloody brilliant, they are. But let’s face it, it doesnae always have a happy ending.’

  ‘No, no, it doesn’t.’

  Scott looked around the huge car park, wishing he hadn’t hinted at the subject of death, guaranteed to have a negative impact on his colleague, so recently bereaved.

  After almost five minutes’ driving around, Daley managed to attract the attention of another driver and silently negotiated replacing his vehicle in the space the other was about to vacate by a process of complex semaphore through the windscreen.

  They walked through the spacious vestibule of the Royal Alexandra Hospital, past newsagents, cafés and other outlets. Scott looked momentarily amazed. ‘It’s like a bloody shopping centre, Jimmy.’

  ‘I suppose they have to make money somehow. The NHS has little enough funding as it is.’

  After following the signs, and plodding along endless corridors, they arrived at intensive care, where Colin Galt was being treated.

  At a busy nurses’ station, Daley showed his ID and was taken to one side by a senior nurse, who talked quietly to him while Scott looked on.

  ‘What?’ Daley’s raised voice was in marked contrast to the whispering nurse. ‘The last I heard he was sitting up talking.’

  ‘I’ll find one of the doctors, DCI Daley. He’ll be able to explain what happened much more clearly.’

  Scott looked at his colleague. ‘What’s up, Jimmy?’

  ‘Galt’s dead, that’s what’s up, Brian.’

  A harassed man in a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a stethoscope draped around his neck, approached the police officers.

  ‘I’m Dr Alan King,’ he said. ‘I gather you were here to speak to Colin Galt?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daley.

  ‘Unfortunately Mr Galt died about an hour and a half ago. He suffered a massive brain haemorrhage. It was unexpected. He was recovering well from his injuries.’

  ‘How could you possibly miss that, especially in intensive care?’

  ‘These things happen, DCI Daley. If I could save every patient who arrived here, trust me, I would. Every one of the people who staff this hospital feels the same. These things just happen. Especially to middle-aged men who are overweight and over-stressed, as it happens.’

  ‘But Galt was a fitness fanatic. If he wasn’t out running, he was walking round a golf course.’

  ‘I wasn’t necessarily referring to him.’ King eyed Daley up and down. ‘I’ve seen far too many men die prematurely because they thought their work, their money worries, their relationships, their drinking or smoking or anything else was more important than staying alive. It’s one of the great mysteries of existence, if you ask me.’

  Ignoring the barb, Daley continued. ‘So, you’re saying this could have happened to him at any time?’

  ‘Yes. Of course it’s early days, and due to the circumstances he’ll be examined thoroughly by a pathologist. Being shot won’t have helped any underlying condition, but we can hardly legislate for that. Despite his being a fit man, I noted early on that his liver wasn’t in the best shape possible. Heavy drinking over a number of years was by far the most likely cause. The body is like a machine: if one part struggles, or isn’t maintained, the whole structure is under stress.’

  ‘Your liver can repair itself, can it no’?’ said Scott, suddenly looking anxious.

  ‘Yes, indeed it can. But there’s a limit. Anyway, I digress. As to the precise cause of death – we shall have to wait for the post-mortem for the complete picture. I’m very sorry. Now, gentlemen, I’m sure you appreciate that I have other pressing matters to deal with.’

  Daley nodded, and he and Scott looked on as Dr King hurried back the way he had come.

  ‘He was having a wee dig at you there, big man.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘About the health – stress an’ that.’ Scott shook his head sagely. ‘You only get one chance at life.’

  ‘Huh, listen to it. This coming from the man who still smokes, and whose liver’s probably the size of a rugby ball.’

  ‘Aye, but I’m getting better.’

  ‘And the fags?’

  Before Scott could think of a suitable riposte, Daley turned on his heel and hurried down the corridor. ‘Next stop Beith, Brian.’

  42

  Carrie Symington pondered as she stared down at the rough tarpaulin covering the graves. The forensic team had just about finished their painstaking task, and soon the bricks weighing the protective cover down would be removed and the archaeology team could get back to work.

  She climbed the hill, heading for the large tent that was being used by both archaeologists and police officers, when they were on site. She was surprised to find it empty, save for one young woman who was carefully brushing mud from something that looked to Symington like a rusty, twisted teaspoon.

  ‘I’m Chief Superintendent Symington,’ she said to the fresh-faced girl, whose long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. ‘I’m looking for Professor Francombe. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Wish I did. I’ve been trying to have a word with her since yesterday. I haven’t a clue where she is. I’ve had the dean of the college – our paymasters – on the phone nearly every hour asking the same thing.’

  Symington smiled. ‘So, no idea where she could be?’

  ‘I’ve checked the hotel. She hasn’t been spotted there either. I can only think she’s on a mini field trip.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, she’s famous for it. The prof gets bored easily, so she often goes and investigates nearby sites of possible interest while we do the legwork. I’ve been on a couple of digs with her. Off she goes with her one person tent and a rucksack. No mobile phone, of course – she hates them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She thinks it’s an intrusion. To be fair, when she does have it with her and it’s on, the thing never stops. The old academics back at college may look crusty, but they’ve taken to mobiles and tablets like ducks to water. It’s a control thing; and from what I know of the prof, she isn’t one for being controlled.’

  ‘So this absence isn’t unusual – not being able to get in touch with her, I mean?’

  ‘No, not at all. I told the dean so, too. I bet you my meagre salary that her mobile is lying about in her hotel room somewhere. She’s just a free spirit, you know?’

  Symington thought for a few moments. ‘How do you get on with her?’

  ‘Oh, she’s great to work for. People can get funny about her – well, with the stories and all. But I’ve never had a problem.’

  ‘Stories?’

  She paused. ‘Sorry, I’ve said too much. Anyway, it’s just speculation – a story, as I say. There’s nothing us archaeologists like better than a gossip.’

  ‘Well, do tell. I love a good tale. You’ll find police officers are just the same. Sorry, what’s your name?’

  ‘Caron, Caron Jennings. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have said anything, really. It’s all just nonsense, probably. You’ve no idea how we go on – it’s another hazard of the
job. Too much time spent huddled in places like this waiting for the rain to go off.’

  ‘Come on, you’re not on trial. You’ve never come across real gossip until you’ve spent some time at a police station, let me assure you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Caron sighed and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘The rumour is that Anthea has a past she’s not keen on anyone finding out about.’

  ‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,’ replied Symington, thinking about her own efforts to find out more about the mercurial professor.

  ‘The rumour is that she’s changed her name, or something. Has a dark secret she doesn’t want anyone to know about.’

  Momentarily, Symington was intrigued. She’d come across all manner of people who’d hidden or changed their identity for one reason or another. Not all felonious ones, either. Abused women regularly changed their names in order to avoid violent ex-partners and husbands. She was aware that rumours about her own past were now rife in police circles. The perils of being the boss, she thought. ‘And how likely do you think this rumour is to be true, Caron?’

  ‘Oh, very unlikely, I’d say. As I told you, she’s good to work for, but doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You can imagine she’s ruffled a good few feathers in her time. It’s all spite, probably. Lots of older colleagues – especially men – can’t stand the idea that a young woman has beaten them to a good job and the respect the professor has within our small world.’

  ‘Oh, trust me, I can imagine that quite easily.’ Symington looked round the large tent.

  ‘I couldn’t care less. How people choose to lead their lives is none of my concern – why should it be? The younger lads – you know, graduate trainees and the like – are the worst. And older men, of course.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Mind you, there’s not much about her online – up until a couple of years ago, at least. Strange, really.’

  ‘Yes, that’s another thing you don’t need to tell me much about.’

  Caron looked suddenly concerned. ‘You won’t tell her I told you? I mean, she’s been very fair with me . . . I feel like a bit of a Judas, feeding you this.’

  ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Anyhow, as you say, it’s all probably worthless banter.’

  Symington said goodbye to the archaeologist and left the tent. The day had improved. White clouds scudded across a pale blue sky on the light breeze, as seabirds swooped and soared on thermals. The tide lapped quietly on the white sand of the small bay far below. All the same, looking across the Kilbrannon Sound, she could see dark skies above the Ayrshire coast. The smells of gorse and sea mixed together, a hint of the summer about to arrive.

  For a moment, she wondered how Daley was getting on, then thought about the heavily redacted file on Anthea Francombe. It would make sense that some personal details would be removed if the story that she’d just been told was true. But what could she be hiding? It was clear her employers knew about it, hence the file, so it couldn’t be anything unlawful.

  She leaned back through the flap of the marquee. ‘Sorry, Caron. When you say that Professor Francombe could well be off on a little fact-finding expedition of her own, do you have any idea where?’

  The young woman thought for a moment. ‘Not really, apart from Machrie, or the oubliette where that poor woman was found. We’ve not got much else to work on. I couldn’t sleep the other night thinking about her imprisoned down in that awful place. Your men are still examining it. Despite its recent use, it’s a wonderful find. We can’t wait to get our hands on it.’

  Symington nodded thoughtfully. ‘It was terrible – what happened to Nurse McNeil, I mean. Can you take me to it – if you have the time, that is? I’ve just driven here in a normal car, and I hear that the going is rather rough on the way to the castle.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I’m just about finished. We can take the old Land Rover. Hang on.’

  As Caron packed away her equipment, Symington looked on. ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘It’s a horseshoe. Whether it’s a medieval one or one from the seventies is the question I’m trying to answer.’

  ‘Your job sounds much like mine – well, the way it used to be, anyway.’

  Soon they were bumping down the rough lane in the old Land Rover. Something about Anthea Francombe and Helen McNeil was nagging at Symington’s.

  They took the A737 from Paisley to Beith, a road Daley was very familiar with, having lived in Howwood, not too far from their destination. In fact, Liz still lived there, though their large detached house would be empty now she was off on holiday with – well, with whomever she had taken with her.

  As the village approached, Daley kept his eyes on the road, looking neither left nor right. Scott, for once, stayed silent, guessing how his old friend must feel.

  Though the traffic was heavy, the rain was now no more than a light drizzle. Daley had programmed the satnav, which burst into life from time to time giving him directions he already knew. The exact location of the house he was searching for was the only reason he was using it.

  Daley thought about this. Here he was, only a handful of miles from what had been his home for years, but he barely knew the area at all, only the main road through it to somewhere else. After a short time in Kintyre, he could now envision great swathes of the peninsula and beyond, picturing even remote farmhouses or sandy beaches instantly if they ever came into conversation.

  He realised that, despite being ‘home’, this place felt distant; alien, even. He thought of Kinloch as his home, loving both the place and its people, despite their occasionally unusual approach to life – and, indeed, justice.

  He thought again about the big house in Howwood, in the new up-market estate. Each room had been themed by his wife, down to the smallest ornament and last lick of paint. He’d always felt like a stranger there; now it felt like another country, another time.

  Turn left, then immediately right. The flat voice of the satnav dragged him from these miserable thoughts and on to a narrow B road. For a few moments he had to edge slowly forward, a recalcitrant sheep blocking the way. Realising it was outmatched by Daley’s SUV, the animal quickly scrabbled over a ditch, through a gap in the fence, and back to the field whence it came.

  ‘I’ve always wondered aboot sheep,’ said Scott.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Aye. The buggers seem that bloody stupid, but an auld farmer doon the road telt me that they’re right clever beasts. They can recognise people better than dogs.’

  ‘You know, your knowledge of the obscure and pointless never ceases to amaze me, Brian.’

  ‘At least I’ve no’ turned intae a fucking misery like you, Jimmy. You used tae be full o’ fun – when you weren’t chasing shadows, or obsessed wae some faceless killer. Now . . .’

  ‘Now, what?’

  ‘Ach, you’ve changed, man. You need tae find your auld self before it’s lost altogether.’

  ‘Listen to Freud over here.’

  ‘That guy wae the dog food, how dae you work that oot?’

  Take the second exit at the next roundabout.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Daley, less than inclined to take Scott on a trip through the great philosopher’s family tree. ‘In any case, you’ve had plenty of moments of being a grumpy bastard when you were on the bevvy.’

  In three hundred yards, turn left.

  ‘Och, you’re just the same as Ella. The answer to every argument is when you were on the bevvy.’

  ‘It’s true, though. You could be a right pain in the arse when you were pished.’

  Turn left now then follow the road for four hundred yards.

  ‘Huh. At least I was enjoying myself.’

  ‘You looked miserable half the time.’

  At the end of the road turn right, then right again.

  ‘Miserable? You’ve turned intae a right misery. Hamish telt me he sees you doon at the loch just staring at the water.’

  ‘I’m enjoying the beauty of my surroundings – and thinking.’ Daley
was beginning to become irritated.

  Bear right.

  ‘You’re just brooding.’

  ‘If you think I’m worried about what Liz is getting up to, you’re dead wrong, buddy.’

  ‘Nah, you’re still mourning that wee lassie Mary. Think I’m daft?’

  Follow the road for two hundred yards and you’ve reached your destination.

  ‘Shut up, Brian.’

  ‘Just saying, big man. You’ve got tae get yourself back intae life. The past’s the past.’

  You’ve reached your destination.

  Daley was still brooding as the pair drove down a short gravel drive and parked outside a sizeable Georgian mansion, ivy reaching up its old walls, a large oak tree, bristling with new life, to the side of the property, next to a modern double garage, designed to echo the architecture of the house, but failing.

  They climbed the short set of steps and Scott pulled on an old-fashioned doorbell.

  ‘I’ve no’ seen one o’ them for a long time. Is that a wee duck pond o’er there?’

  ‘Hope they answer soon, or I’ll be over staring at it,’ said Daley sarcastically.

  As Scott snorted derision a bright-faced young woman, somewhere in her late twenties, opened the door a crack, scrutinising the policemen with a puzzled look.

  ‘DCI Daley and DS Scott, ma’am,’ said Daley. They both showed their warrant cards – a minor miracle in itself as Scott had usually left his somewhere.

  ‘Okay! Right, so not who I was expecting,’ replied the young woman in clipped English tones. ‘I rather feared that you were the boiler men, and you don’t look at all apparelled for such a task. Do come in. I hope nothing terrible has happened.’

  ‘No, not at all. We’d just like to ask a few questions about the house, or rather some of its occupants,’ said Daley, as they were led through a long hallway, its polished floor covered with scattered Turkish carpets.

  She showed the detectives into a wood-panelled lounge, where a log fire burned in an old iron hearth. The walls were adorned with red-and-cream striped wallpaper, paintings and framed photographs artfully placed here and there. The carpet was thick deep green pile, and the lady of the house sat the policemen on either end of a large Chesterfield couch, the patina of its leather adding to a feel of age, luxury and expense.