The Relentless Tide

  Praise for Denzil Meyrick and the DCI Daley thriller series:

  ‘What distinguishes Meyrick from other tartan noir authors is his humour and the depth of his interest in local issues’

  The Times

  ‘One of our top twenty best-sellers in crime/thriller . . . consistently one of our members’ favourite crime authors’

  Audible UK

  ‘Spellbinding . . . one of the UK’s most loved crime writers’

  The Sunday Post

  ‘Universal truths . . . an unbuttoned sense of humour . . . engaging and eventful’

  The Wall Street Journal

  ‘A compelling lead . . . satisfyingly twisted plot’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘Touches of dark humour, multi-layered and compelling’

  Daily Record

  ‘Striking characters and shifting plots vibrate with energy’

  The Library Journal

  ‘Compelling new Scottish crime’

  The Strand Magazine

  ‘If you like Rankin, MacBride and Oswald, you’ll love Meyrick’

  The Sunday Mail

  ‘Scotland’s best new crime writer’

  Waterstones

  ‘The right amount of authenticity . . . gritty writing . . . most memorable’

  The Herald

  ‘All three books have a strong sense of place, of city cops trying to fit in to a small, tightly knit rural environment’ Russell Leadbetter, Evening Times

  ‘Denzil Meyrick’s [books] . . . certainly enriched my world’ Richard Bath, Editor, Scottish Field Magazine

  ‘Meyrick has the ability to give even the least important person in the plot character and the skill to tell a good tale’ Scots Magazine

  ‘Following in the tradition of great Scottish crime writers, Denzil Meyrick has turned out a cracking, tenacious thriller of a read. If you favour the authentic and credible, you are in safe hands’

  Lovereading

  ‘If you thought Denzil Meyrick’s The Last Witness, was thrilling, Dark Suits and Sad Songs is truly mesmerising . . . DCI Daley is shaping up to be the West Coast’s answer to Edinburgh’s Rebus’

  Scottish Home and Country

  A note on the author

  Denzil Meyrick was born in Glasgow and brought up in Campbeltown. After studying politics, he pursued a varied career including time spent as a police officer, freelance journalist and director of several companies in the leisure, engineering and marketing sectors. Previous novels in the bestselling DCI Daley thriller series are Whisky from Small Glasses (Waterstones Scottish Book of the Year, 2015), The Last Witness, Dark Suits and Sad Songs, The Rat Stone Serenade, Well of the Winds and One Last Dram Before Midnight. Denzil lives on Loch Lomond side with his wife, Fiona.

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

  Birlinn Ltd

  West Newington House

  10 Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.polygonbooks.co.uk

  1

  Copyright © Denzil Meyrick 2018

  The right of Denzil Meyrick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978 1 84697 412 0

  eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 003 2

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

  Typeset by 3btype.com

  In memory of Allister Stewart – one of the first people I ever knew

  ‘The past is never dead. It’s not even past.’

  —William Faulkner

  PROLOGUE

  Greenock, 1994

  Count the waves, she told him. Keep counting; every seventh wave is the biggest.

  He watched the sea carefully, counting as each sweep of the ocean hissed up the sand on to the pebbles.

  Yes, she was right. One wave foamed its way further up the beach, its crest white and broiling, the sound it made louder than the waves that had gone before. It was as though it was shouting, Look at me – look at me!

  He giggled as he counted again. Sure enough, the seventh wave returned; this time it came closer to the tartan rug on which they were sitting, making him squeal with delight.

  As the wave receded, drawing back the way it had come, rasping on the sand against the cries of the gulls, the sky darkened. He looked up; the sun was now hidden behind a cloud, leaching the colour and warmth from the day. Fear gripped his heart as another wave crashed on to the shore.

  Where would the next big wave stop? Would he and his mother be caught in its embrace and dragged back out to the sea? He couldn’t swim, and nor could she – he knew that because she had always wanted to be able to teach him, but couldn’t. That meant that she wouldn’t be able to save him when the seventh wave caught them. She hadn’t been watching – how could she know?

  He stood up, grabbing his mother’s arm, tugging with all his might.

  ‘What is it – what’s wrong?’ she said, puzzled by the little boy’s sudden change of mood.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted, desperately trying to pull her off the rug and away from danger. ‘The big wave – it’ll get us!’

  She hugged him, holding him close. ‘Darling, the waves won’t get us – we’re safe. The sea won’t come this far up the beach, honest.’ She smiled at the little boy as he took this in. She almost anticipated the next question.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she replied, smiling at his earnest face, hugging him, their cheeks touching under the warmth of the sun.

  It was the warmth of that day he remembered as he watched the body flailing about in the surf. He knew it was her: he could see the bright red scarf she always wore when she was painted – make-up she called it, but it looked like paint to him – and smelled of perfume, still tied around her neck.

  He remembered that she’d been wearing it when she left with her friend, kissing him goodbye, leaving a smear of lipstick on his cheek. Her friend had hugged him too, but he hadn’t liked that. She had no right to hug him – that was his mother’s job, not hers. His mother was beautiful, slim and bright-eyed. This woman was big and ugly, as far as he was concerned, and her perfume was horrid.

  As he heard them clatter down the stone steps of the close outside the flat where he lived, he sniffed at the air, but the light, distinctive scent his mother always wore was undetectable under the heavy sweetness of the other.

  He sighed, and ran to the window. They were arm in arm, walking down the grey street, against which their bright clothes were a shock of colour. Like a picture from one of the books his mother read to him. He felt the fat tear as it slipped down his cheek.

  Though he held his hand against the cold windowpane, ready to wave goodbye, she didn’t look back. She never looked back when she was going out.

  He held his cold hand to his cheek, remembering the warmth of her embrace, as he cuddled the doll – he hated teddy bears and toy soldiers – she had given him to his chest.

  That had been three sleeps ago.

  Now he was standing on the pier. His granny had said a wee walk there would take his mind off his mum.

  Looking down at the body being tossed about in the waves, he counted. He knew the seventh wave would wash her on to the beach.

  He heard his grandmother scream.

  Th
e seventh wave crashed the body on to the shingle below, then hissed its way back out to sea, leaving the corpse of the young woman lying pale and bloated on the sand.

  1

  Kinloch, the present

  She winced at the sound that was dragging her from a deep sleep. Reaching out, she pulled the smartphone from the table, almost dropping it, at the same time attempting to mash some moisture back into her mouth and forcing her eyelids apart.

  The pool of light coming from the phone illuminated her face as she stared down at the screen, trying desperately to focus.

  Time to get up. Dad x.

  For a second or two her mind failed to register why this most familiar text, the innocuous few characters blinking at her in the darkness, were wrong. Then, as her brain began to drag itself from the arms of Morpheus, she threw the device to the floor as if it were a hot coal and sat bolt upright in bed, the breath catching in her throat as she gulped for air.

  She’d just been woken by a dead man.

  Detective Sergeant Brian Scott moaned as he trudged across the muddy field in the half-light. He swore as he tripped on a large rock, yet to be cleared from the site by the construction company. At least they’d managed to dig an impromptu track along which he’d been able to bring the police SUV, rather than having to scale the hill on foot, but now that track was at an end.

  Be thankful for small mercies.

  The young DC at his side coughed and spat unceremoniously.

  ‘What was that, Potts?’ asked Scott, his face drawn into an expression of disgust.

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant, can’t shake this cold. I always get one when the summer’s on its way. Pain in the arse,’ his companion replied.

  ‘Aye, well, just keep it tae yourself. My wife’s on her way here tae see if she’ll be able tae make the move tae Kinloch mair permanent. The last thing we need is me snottering all o’er the place when she arrives, son.’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant.’

  ‘And forby that, you’re representing Police Scotland. We’ve had enough PR disasters without you bounding aboot displaying the content o’ your nose tae all and sundry. Try and have some . . .’

  ‘Decorum?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the word. Try an’ get some o’ that aboot you.’

  Through the mist, a figure was slowly making its way towards them, the fluorescent yellow of the hi-vis jacket looking almost disembodied until the young woman who was wearing it was a few feet away.

  ‘DS Scott?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘Aye, that’s me,’ he replied tetchily. ‘Where’s this Professor Francombe? I’m needing tae get oot o’ this mist and get a decent cup of tea doon me.’ He smiled at the young woman. ‘Any chance o’ a cuppa, dear? Once we find this professor bloke, that is.’

  ‘I’m Professor Francombe,’ she said frostily. ‘The only tea I make is green Chinese, not the kind of beverage a discerning gentleman like your good self would be happy with, I imagine.’ She stared at him levelly, almost the same height as the detective, a jutting, determined chin reinforcing her confident manner.

  Scott hesitated. ‘Aye, right. Sorry aboot that. I can see you’ve got a badge on. This mist – I wisnae seeing you just right, if you know what I mean.’

  Francombe rolled her eyes and asked them to follow her.

  ‘Glad you gave me that tip about decorum, Sergeant. Could have made a fool of myself there,’ whispered Potts.

  Scott stared balefully at the constable and muttered something indistinct under his breath as the two men started after Francombe, already making better progress up the hill than the members of the constabulary, who toiled even more as the mud thickened and sucked at their wellington boots.

  As they reached the top of a small rise the mist began to thin, and the bright ball of the early summer sun became visible, albeit diffused.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Francombe, bringing their trudge to an end.

  A few feet away, three holes in the ground had been delineated from the sea of mud by yellow tape, marking them out as roughly rectangular.

  ‘We’ve done our best to shore things up. The weather is set to improve today and over the weekend, so we can tidy the scene up further. I’m sure your forensic teams will want to get into the graves and look properly. As soon as we realised what we were dealing with we abandoned this area. I can’t be sure that there’s been no corruption of potential evidence, though. For that, you have my apologies. Finding something like this is not an everyday occurrence – in my line of work, at any rate.’

  Scott nodded, rubbing the short stubble on his chin thoughtfully. ‘I wouldnae worry. Everyone who’s been on site will have to provide DNA samples for the purposes of illumination.’

  ‘Elimination, do you mean?’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I said.’ Scott coughed irritably. ‘So, you came upon these last night, Professor Francombe?’ He gestured to DC Potts, who quickly produced his notebook and pen and began taking notes.

  ‘Yes, we made the discovery just as we were packing up. One of our young graduates found them. At first we were thrilled – excited, you know, at the prospect of finding something of significance. Something to stop them putting these bloody windmills here.’ She spat out the last few words.

  ‘No’ a fan o’ wind turbines, then?’

  ‘Well, since you ask – no. Especially not on a site as potentially important as this one.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Surely you’ve read the papers, Sergeant? This hill could well have been the domicile of a notable figure from Scotland’s past. There’s enough evidence – for me at least – to indicate that perhaps even Somerled himself called this home.’

  ‘Summer who?’

  ‘Somerled, Sergeant,’ interjected Potts. ‘Lord of the Isles. Part Viking part Scot, I think I’m right in saying, ma’am?’

  ‘Very impressive, Constable. Maybe you should be asking the questions while your colleague here takes notes?’

  ‘Eh . . . well, I don’t know that much. Just something I picked up at uni.’

  ‘Aye, there you are. A university degree’s no’ much use when you’re knee-deep in fitba fans that want tae take your heid off. Aye, and no’ when the nightclubs are coming oot all along Sauchiehall Street, and the place is going like a fair,’ said Scott waspishly, glaring at the younger policeman. ‘So, I take it you thought the bodies you found were ancient, aye?’

  ‘No, not ancient, that’s the wrong period. But we certainly hoped that they could be early medieval, or around the time your constable seems to be familiar with. Also, body is not the term I would use. That would suggest something more recent. Apart from some rotting cloth and jewellery, we’re definitely looking at bones in all three cases, Sergeant Scott. Sadly, not of the ancient or even historical variety.’

  ‘How did you spot that something was wrong?’

  ‘It’s my job, Sergeant. I qualified as an osteo-archaeologist.’

  ‘Right. You’d better spell that for Einstein here. What does that mean, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘I’m sure your constable can spell it perfectly well. Am I right, Constable?’ She smiled as Potts nodded slightly, pointedly not looking at his superior, but shuffling uncomfortably in his muddy wellingtons.

  ‘So you knew what age they were – just by looking, I mean?’ Scott’s tone was sarcastic.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. If I wasn’t able to differentiate between historical and modern remains just by looking, I wouldn’t last long in my job. Must be the same in your line of work, I’m sure.’ She was deploying an equal amount of sarcasm, making Potts stifle a snigger. ‘I’d take you closer, but I’m sure that wouldn’t be appreciated by the Crime Scene Manager.’

  ‘No, it widnae,’ said Scott. ‘For someone who doesnae deal with the police very often, you seem tae know plenty aboot it. I’m only just gettin’ tae grips wae Crime Scene Managers myself.’

  ‘I said it was unusual to find modern remains in the course of our work, but it does happen.
I was involved with the case last year in Yorkshire where the murderer had buried his victim in a graveyard full of sixteenth-century monks. Do you remember it?’

  ‘I’ve enough tae dae working on a’ the problems we have here without concerning myself wae Yorkshire monks. We’ll wait until SOCO arrives. Should be here within the hour, so I’m told.’

  ‘Very well. In the meantime, I’ll take you to our canteen for some tea. Don’t get carried away, it’s just a glorified tent.’

  ‘As long as it’s got a kettle, I’m no’ bothered how glorified it is. You stay here, and think aboot thon Somerled fellow,’ said Scott, nodding to Potts. ‘You never know, he might come oot o’ the mists wae his sword and show you just how much use a university degree is in oor line o’ work.’

  He smiled to himself as Francombe led him back down the hill. He might not be a graduate, but he was the one about to have a cup of tea and a seat in a warm tent.

  2

  Detective Chief Inspector Jim Daley sat in the office reception at Kinloch Hospital. The senior staff nurse had bustled off to find community nurse Helen McNeil. From what he could glean, McNeil had been the victim of some kind of hoax, and though she wasn’t anxious to report it to the police her colleagues had felt it serious enough to make the call. Concluding that this interview might prove upsetting for the woman, Daley had decided to attend the hospital in person rather than send a junior detective.

  He heard the telltale squeak of the trainers that seemed to be the preferred footwear of nurses when in their working environment, and got to his feet just as the door swung open.

  Before him stood the staff nurse alongside another woman in a dark blue uniform. The newcomer was quite tall, slightly overweight, and looked to be in early middle age, her short, straight hair, once dark, now turning grey. Daley noted large black rings around her bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Now, Helen, just tell DCI Daley what you told me. You know you can’t let something like this go. A prank’s a prank, but this is just sick.’

  The woman was looking down, seemingly unwilling to meet the policeman’s eye.