The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘It’s personal – nothing to do with you or anyone else, Daley.’ Suddenly Chisholm’s tone was aggressive.

  ‘Is this the same as in ninety-six when you signed out Ian Burns’s coat from the old Productions Unit and conveniently forgot to put it back?’

  ‘What are you talking about, man?’

  ‘Here,’ said Daley, turning his laptop to face Chisholm. A signature had been blown up on the screen – the same one Scott and he had seen earlier in Glasgow. ‘We’ve had it checked by handwriting experts – it’s yours, Duncan.’

  ‘Bollocks! That’s only an opinion.’

  ‘Is this an opinion?’ Daley handed two more photographs over the desk to Chisholm. Though they were monochrome, the image of a younger, slimmer Duncan Chisholm was clear. As was the bag he was carrying, leaving the then Strathclyde Police Productions Unit in Glasgow in 1996.

  ‘I must admit, they’re very thorough up here. Imagine keeping that footage for all this time,’ observed Symington.

  ‘Give me your mobile, Duncan,’ Daley demanded.

  ‘You’ve no right to do this – either of you. I want a Federation rep here, right now. This is a bloody set-up. I expected more of you, ma’am.’

  ‘And this is a hot case, with suspects still at large – give me the phone, Duncan!’ shouted Daley.

  Shaking his head, Chisholm reluctantly handed the device across the desk to his colleague, who examined it quickly.

  ‘What do you know. The last call was nine minutes ago – to Helen McNeil, in fact.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove anything, Jim, and you know it.’ Chisholm smiled scornfully.

  Daley reached under his desk, pulling up a small device. ‘But this does.’ He scrolled back time on the screen and pressed play.

  Don’t get on the plane, Helen. Keep calm, but get out of there and drive away as far away as possible. Use cash. I’ll call you when I can. Just get out of the airport! And FFS, try and look calm.

  Chisholm dropped his head.

  ‘A forensic team – och, you likely know them – are going through what you had in the lockup in Airdrie, Duncan. Women’s clothes, jewellery – a right little treasure trove, so I’m told,’ said Daley.

  ‘Or a rather ghoulish reminder of your past, DCI Chisholm,’ said Symington.

  ‘And you were first into each grave up on Kilmilken hill, Duncan. Your officers were certain, said you insisted on it.’

  ‘Aye, so what? I was in charge of the scene.’

  ‘You were looking for evidence – and little keepsakes for yourself, I dare say,’ said Daley. ‘You didn’t legislate for some light-fingered archaeologist removing your treasures from plain sight where you thought it would be safe – safe for you to pick up later.’

  ‘Hey, wait a minute. You can’t think I’m the Midweek Murderer. Jimmy, come on, man!’

  Daley looked him in the eye. ‘You said it.’

  Symington spoke sombrely. ‘Duncan Chisholm, I’m arresting you . . .’

  ‘Dunky Chisholm,’ said Scott, alone with Daley now the arrest was over. ‘I cannae believe it. I mean, I know he was fond o’ the ladies, and that, but . . .’

  ‘Not that fond of them, obviously,’ said Daley.

  ‘Aye, well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s going to be a late one for you and me, Bri.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Time is of the essence. Helen will be brought here tomorrow for questioning, and I want to be prepared.’ He hefted a large file, bursting at the seams with documents. ‘I know how much you hate computers, my old pal. This has been sent by the MOD, and I want you to go through it.’

  ‘What, all of it the night?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Scott sighed and shook his head. ‘Well, I’ll need coffee – aye, and something tae eat. I’ll need to let oor Ella know. She’ll no’ be happy.’

  ‘There’s a Chinese carryout on the way. And give Ella a wee phone. You’re not telling me she sits up and waits for you, not after all these years of nocturnal boozing.’

  ‘Here we go again – the man who never takes a wee glass o’ whisky. No’ so wee these days, neither.’

  ‘Right in my heart,’ said Daley, feigning pain.

  ‘It’s good tae see you smile, Jimmy.’

  Daley nodded. ‘It’s good to feel like smiling again, Brian.’ He sat upright in his chair. ‘Okay, I’ll take you through what you’re looking for, then it’s time for me to wake up a few academics and some lawyers.’

  ‘Whatever you say, big man, whatever you say.’

  49

  Glasgow, 1994

  Jim Daley awoke with a start. His first instinct was to jump up in bed, but he found it too painful to move. He looked round at the machines he was attached to, bleeping and pulsing, then down at his body.

  ‘You’re awake, Mr Daley.’ A nurse was standing by his bedside. ‘Everyone’s been very worried about you, but the doctors tell me you’re doing just fine. One of them will be round to see you shortly. You took – well, you took some beating.’

  ‘Yes, I can feel it,’ said Daley weakly. ‘Can I have a drink, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ She poured a glass of water from a jug and held it to his mouth. ‘Just sips, take it slowly.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He laid his head heavily back on the pillow, the pain excruciating, there and just about everywhere else.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you. Do you feel up to it?’

  ‘Is it Liz – my wife, I mean?’

  ‘No, but she has phoned a couple of times. She says she’ll be in as soon as you come round. I’ll give her a call. I have an Assistant Chief Constable Taylor waiting to see you. He’s been here most of the night.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll see him,’ said Daley, rather disappointed that it wasn’t his wife waiting anxiously in the corridor for news.

  In a few moments ACC Taylor arrived in the room. He looked down at Daley with a mixture of relief, guilt and fading anxiety. ‘How do you feel, Jim?’

  ‘Not so hot, to be honest, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve felt much better then this, son.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid I’ve let you down.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘I should have realised that whatever scum we’re harbouring in the force would take their revenge. We can’t prove anything, of course.’

  ‘Machie did say it was a message from my “colleagues”.’ Daley turned his head on the pillow.

  ‘So it was Machie. I should have known that piece of shit would be behind something like this.’

  ‘Even worse if one of our own hired him, sir.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Taylor sighed. ‘We’ll take a statement from you as soon as you feel well enough. You know the score, though – just your word against his, no CCTV up there, no witnesses. It’ll be hard to pin anything on him. They left you bleeding in the road, Jim.’

  ‘Yes, I know the score, sir. You won’t find any witnesses. This is James Machie we’re talking about.’

  ‘We’ll try, though, I promise you that.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Also, when you’ve recovered, no more of this uniform work. You’re too talented an officer to be out there pounding the beat. I made you vulnerable, and you’ve paid a heavy price for it, I’m ashamed to say.’

  ‘Not your fault, sir. Just shows what we’re facing – in the job, I mean.’

  ‘Indeed it does. Ian Burns was right. I dread to think what he’d be saying to me now if . . .’

  ‘If he was here, sir.’

  ‘Yes, if he was here, Jim.’ Taylor lowered his head. ‘One day we’ll have them, Jim. We’ll get justice for Ian – and for you. Also the countless others who have been ill-served by this bloody disease.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Meanwhile, you take your time to get better. As soon as you’re fit, you’ll take up duties as a DC in Paisley. I’ll have you bumped up to sergeant as soon as I can.’ He looked into Daley’s bruised and battered
face. ‘That’s if you’ve still got the stomach for it?’

  Daley thought for a moment or two, feeling his broken bones, remembering the fear he’d felt in his heart when he was set upon; his hatred for the people who ordered his beating – worse still, the killing of Ian Burns. ‘Don’t worry, sir. I want to find out who killed Ian, and I will one day, I promise you.’

  ‘I believe you, Jim. I really do. We’ll all fight the good fight, as Ian would say.’ He placed his braided cap back on his head. ‘I’ll send a car for your wife. I’m sure she’ll be relieved to see you back with us.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, sir,’ said Daley, thoughts of Liz caught up in the rest of his whirling emotions.

  Kinloch, the present

  As Daley emerged from his glass box every detective working late on the case stopped to look at him.

  ‘Brian, and you two,’ he said, pointing to DC Potts and DC Shona McQueen. ‘I’ve had an idea. I think I know where Professor Francombe might be. Come on.’

  ‘I’ve found a few interesting things, tae, boss,’ said Scott.

  They hurried out of Kinloch Police Office and took two unmarked cars, Daley and Scott in one, Potts and McQueen in the other.

  They drove the short distance to the sandstone flats that overlooked the loch. There was a large moon, and the water was still. Faint echoes of the clear starry sky were reflected in the gently rippling water. Apart from a fishing boat chugging its way out of the harbour, all was quiet, save for the plaintive call of a sandpiper as it flew between the twin piers.

  ‘This is where Helen McNeil lives, Jim.’

  ‘And the award for stating the bloody obvious goes to Brian Scott – again!’ said Daley with a grin.

  As Potts and McQueen parked behind them, Daley hurried out of his SUV, opened the close door and took the steps to Helen’s flat two at a time, the other detectives in his wake.

  Daley tried the door, then looked under the mat, while Scott did the same with a plant pot, both items sitting on the neat landing beside the nurse’s door.

  ‘Worth a try, Jimmy.’

  ‘Right, do the business, Brian.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kick in the door, man!’

  ‘Och, here, I’m too old for that caper. Right, DC Potts, now’s your big moment – kick in that door, son. It’s called the chain o’ command.’

  ‘Should we not call the duty joiner – to access the property, I mean?’ said DC McQueen, a look of surprise on her face.

  ‘Have you just been up at the Police College, by any chance, lassie? Well, this is what you call practical policing. Boot that door open tout suite, son!’

  After a couple of kicks the wood splintered. Daley and Potts put their shoulders to the door and it burst open with a sharp snap.

  Across the landing, an old man’s face appeared through a crack in his door. ‘What’s all this? I’m in my bed, you know.’

  ‘No you’re no’,’ said Scott. ‘You’re standing in the hall.’

  ‘I mean I was in my bed, young man.’

  ‘Aye, well, best get back intae it – there might be some right dangerous folk aboot.’

  ‘You’ve never lost it, have you, Brian?’ said Daley, stepping over the wrecked door and into the flat as Helen’s old neighbour hurried back inside his, loudly bolting and locking the door.

  ‘Lost what?’

  ‘Your complete lack of tact.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, Jimmy,’ Scott replied, following Daley into the property with Potts and McQueen.

  ‘Oh, that’s rancid!’ said DC McQueen, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘I hope we’re not too late,’ said Daley, stepping into the empty lounge.

  ‘Sir, in here!’ called DC Potts from a bedroom down the short hall.

  When Daley entered the room the source of the stench was obvious. There, lying tied hand and foot to the bed, her mouth gagged, in a fetid pool of her own faeces and urine, lay Professor Anthea Francombe. Though her face was bloodless and drawn, her eyes flashed with anger.

  Scott gently removed the gag from her mouth and set to work on her bonds with his ever-present penknife.

  ‘You useless bastards!’ she shouted as soon as she could draw breath. Her voice was weak, and she was gasping for air now she was free of the gag.

  ‘Get her some water,’ said Daley, and McQueen hurried to the kitchen.

  ‘Some bloody detectives – I thought I was going to die here.’

  As Potts radioed for an ambulance, Daley knelt down beside Francombe, whose arms were now unbound.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anthea.’

  ‘Sorry? Look at me, for fuck’s sake. I held it as long as I could, but . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll have you cleaned up and in hospital to recover. You’re safe now.’

  ‘That McNeil woman is mad. Crazy.’ Tears started to flow down her face. Daley thought they were more of anger than self-pity.

  Scott was in the process of freeing her legs when DC McQueen came back with a mug of water. She tried to hold it to Francombe’s mouth, but the stricken woman grabbed it, and in sheer fury propelled its contents over the unfortunate detective, hatred in her dark eyes.

  Daley stood back. He’d pieced together enough about Anthea Francombe to raise his suspicions.

  Now, though, he was sure.

  50

  The police helicopter landed on the town’s green, just at the head of the loch. Inevitably, rumour having spread, a growing band of people had gathered nearby, anxious to be part of the unfolding drama.

  ‘She used tae come and change my mother’s dressings,’ said one woman, a scowl on her face, as the aircraft’s rotor blades slowed to a stop.

  ‘Aye. When oor wee Gary was ill she was at oor hoose near every day for a fortnight,’ said another.

  ‘Lucky the bastard didna have you all murdered in your beds,’ remarked a local fisherman. ‘I always said there was something no’ right aboot her.’

  ‘You said nothing of the kind,’ chided his wife. ‘You telt me whoot a caring woman she was when you had that problem – doon below,’ she added in a lowered voice, attracting the attention of many standing nearby, instantly curious as to what this ‘problem’ had been.

  ‘Trust you, Jean. You never know when tae shut your . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence as the door to the aircraft opened. Then, walking carefully down the steps, handcuffed and guided by a police officer, Helen McNeil set foot back in Kinloch. The murmur from the crowd turned to boos and catcalls as she was walked across the grass to the small convoy of police vehicles parked at the head of the loch.

  ‘I’m buggered if I know how the folk here find oot aboot stuff,’ said Scott, sitting in Daley’s SUV.

  ‘The price of having local staff in the office, Bri.’

  ‘It always astounds me. They’re better detectives than we are.’

  ‘Don’t know how I missed all this for so long. It’s been staring us in the face.’

  ‘Wait, big man. I’m still a bit confused.’

  With Helen safely stowed in a police van, the little convoy made its way back to Kinloch Police Office.

  She sat straight-backed in the interview room, across from Symington and Daley. Despite looking rather flushed, it could have been Helen McNeil on any other day. Daley noted her self-possession.

  ‘So,’ began Symington. ‘You know why you’re here, and you have a lawyer. We’d like to ask you a few questions regarding the Midweek Murder case from the nineties, Ms McNeil.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we need to have answers, that’s why. These were horrific crimes.’

  She eyed the Chief Superintendent levelly and shrugged her shoulders. ‘What do you want me to say?’ She paused. ‘As far as it goes, I suppose I’m guilty.’

  ‘As far as it goes?’ asked Daley.

  She stared at him before replying. ‘I adored my father. My mother abandoned us and he was all I had.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s no
t much to tell. Men have needs. I felt sorry for him – when I was older, I mean.’

  ‘Why sorry?’ asked Symington.

  ‘He was too old to go to a club and pick up a woman. Don’t get me wrong, women liked him – always did. But he preferred – well, younger women.’

  ‘How young?’ said Daley.

  ‘Not what you’re thinking. He wasn’t a bloody pervert!’ For the first time McNeil was animated.

  ‘What do you mean he wasn’t a pervert?’ said Symington. ‘He – you – both of you entrapped young women, who were then raped – dead or alive – brutally murdered, and dumped. How perverse do you want?’

  ‘I’d nothing to do with all that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Daley looked into her emotionless face.

  ‘I didn’t kill anybody. All I’ve done for most of my life is help others.’

  ‘Listen, Helen, whether you wielded the mallet that cracked their skulls, or tightened the rope on their necks, you befriended these women and took them to your father to rape and kill. You can’t tell us you didn’t know what he was doing.’

  ‘Yes, I knew. But I didn’t rape them – I didn’t kill them. I felt sorry for them, in fact.’

  Her flat statement was as eerie as her blank stare. Helen McNeil looked between the officers, unmoved by both what she was being asked and what she had to say by way of a reply.

  ‘So this is how you’ve dealt with this for so long, Helen?’ said Symington. ‘Basically, you’ve wiped your hands clean of the blood of those murdered women just because you didn’t take part in the horrors that were perpetrated upon them, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. Why should I take the blame? I didn’t do it.’

  ‘You realise that you acted as his accomplice and therefore, under the law, you’re as guilty as your father?’

  ‘Then the law is stupid. I mean, you’ve never bothered with the bastard that made those calls and sent those texts to me, have you? What does the law say about that?’

  ‘You cannot compare what happened to your father’s victims to what happened to you, Helen. Don’t you understand? He killed those women: mothers, daughters, wives, girlfriends – whatever they were. He took their lives!’