The Relentless Tide Page 2

  ‘Here, please take a seat, Nurse McNeil,’ he said, pulling a chair nearer his side. ‘Staff Nurse Cox has explained that you’ve experienced something upsetting. I hope I can help.’

  Reluctantly, Nurse McNeil sat down beside him. ‘I didn’t want to bother the police, Inspector. I’m sure you have much better things to do than waste your time on the idiot who did this to me. It was nothing, honestly.’

  ‘Please, just tell me what happened, Helen – may I call you Helen?’

  ‘Yes, please do.’

  ‘Good. I’m Jim, by the way. Now, just describe to me what the problem is and I’ll see if we can help. You’ve got an important job to do, so we don’t want you to be upset in any way. I’m sure Staff Nurse Cox will agree.’

  ‘I certainly do. Our job is hard enough, DCI Daley, without idiots like this causing distress.’

  Helen McNeil looked up at him, sniffing back a tear.

  ‘I lost my father about two years ago. Oh, he was old and ill – ready to die, they said – but I wasn’t ready to lose him.’

  Daley nodded his head slowly, knowing exactly what she meant. He said nothing.

  ‘I work on a two-shift system – early and late. I’m sure you’re no stranger to the concept, Jim.’ She smiled for the first time at the use of his Christian name.

  ‘No, indeed I’m not.’

  ‘I’m a heavy sleeper. My dad always told me I slept the sleep of the dead. But his family were originally from the Isle of Skye and loved dramatic sayings like that.’

  Daley smiled, encouraging her to go on.

  ‘He was always worried that I’d be late for work. He always phoned to wake me up – if I was on the early shift, that is. Latterly, when he was in hospital, he managed to master the use of text on his mobile. He never missed a morning, no matter how early it was, or how ill he was. He’d send a text . . . well, until near the end, that is.’ She held her head in her hands and began to sob.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone close.’ Daley swallowed hard, banishing the growing lump in his throat. ‘Can you tell me more?’

  She fished in the pocket of her uniform and brought out a mobile phone.

  ‘I received this text earlier this morning.’ She touched the screen a few times, then handed it to the detective.

  Daley looked at it, peering, not wearing his reading glasses. But the text was clear enough: Time to get up. Dad x.

  ‘I can see why you would find this upsetting,’ he said. ‘We have ways of finding out where this message was sent from, and perhaps who sent it. Would you like me to do that, Helen?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ she replied, suddenly convulsed by sobs. ‘I know where it came from – the number, I mean.’

  ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘The number that sent the text – it’s my father’s.’

  As Staff Nurse Cox embraced her stricken colleague, Daley made a note of the number on the screen.

  ‘Helen, can I take this with me? Just for a short time. I’ll have our tech team look at it. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation as to how this could happen. And I promise, we’ll do our very best to catch the person who sent this text. It’s beyond cruel; you did the right thing deciding to bring it to our attention.’

  ‘I have another mobile – for work. I can use that, but I’d like mine back, if that’s okay?’

  ‘I promise, we’ll keep it for as short a time as possible. Give me your other number and I’ll call you to let you know how we’re getting on.’ He wrote the digits in his notebook, then got to his feet. ‘Before I go, can I ask you, did anyone else know about the texts your father used to send? You know, friends, other family members, and so on?’

  ‘No. I’m an only child. My mother left when I was young. There was just my father and me – that was it. And I’m quite a private person, I suppose. It’s not the type of thing I would tell people.’ Her tears had stopped, but she still looked distraught.

  Daley thanked her, took his leave of Staff Nurse Cox, left the hospital and embarked on the short walk to Kinloch Police Office.

  He thought about how much cruelty he’d uncovered in the time he’d been a policeman. What had happened to Helen McNeil might appear trivial to some, but to her it was devastating. He resolved to find out just who had sent her the bogus message and make sure they saw the error of their ways.

  3

  Brian Scott was fast asleep, stretched out on a canvas chair in the large tent the archaeological team used as a canteen. He was snoring lightly as DC Potts peered into the gloom and called his name.

  ‘What, eh – where’s the bloody fire?’ he shouted, words slurred by sleep.

  ‘That’s SOCO just about set up for us to have a look, Sergeant,’ said Potts.

  ‘Honestly? They’re quick off the mark, are they no’?’

  ‘Been here for over an hour.’

  ‘What?’ Scott looked at his watch, noting with some dismay that he’d been asleep for over two hours. ‘Why did you no’ wake me up, you clown?’

  ‘I was guarding the scene – like you told me to do, Sergeant.’

  Scott got to his feet, stretched and yawned, and rubbed the small of his back, now aching after sleeping awkwardly in the chair.

  ‘Right, let’s get back doon there.’

  As the detectives opened the flap of the tent, Scott screwed up his eyes against a bright early morning sun.

  ‘When did we get the plane tae the Bahamas?’ he said, pausing to look at the sweeping vista in front of him.

  They were on a hillside about three miles out of Kinloch, on the east side of the Kintyre peninsula overlooking the mirror-calm waters of the Kilbrannon Sound. Above a blue sea arched a marginally lighter shade of blue sky in which seabirds tumbled and wheeled, their cries echoing along the rocky coastline. Far below them, the tide lapped gently on a stretch of white sand. The smell of sea and land in concert in the early summer heat made for a heady mix, a invigorating scent that, in partnership with the echoing cries of birds, the gentle whispering return of the ocean and the beautiful view, assaulted all the senses.

  To their left, the Isle of Arran sat indomitable, its peaks bathed in the golden sunlight, while further out in the sound, Scott could see the bread-shaped mound of Ailsa Craig, the island also known as Paddy’s Milestone. A thin ribbon of land, already shimmering in the rising heat, was the distant Ayrshire coast.

  Scott breathed deeply, filling his lungs, then bent over, coughing spectacularly. ‘Bonnie, eh?’ he said through the paroxysms of his smoker’s rattle. ‘You never know with this place. One minute it’s grey an’ cold, the next it looks like a brochure for your next dream holiday, eh, son?’

  ‘Aye. I’ve got to say, after the first half hour I was quite happy standing by those graves,’ replied the young constable.

  ‘No’ dried this shit oot yet,’ remarked Scott, as he began the trudge through the cloying mud underfoot.

  He could now see a small number of white-clad figures bustling about on stainless steel duckboards around the three graves, now fenced off by police tape. Despite the brightness of the day, three large arc lights, angled into the holes in the ground, were being attended to by a technician. From one grave a white-hooded figure emerged, face obscured by a mask covering nose and mouth.

  As they squelched their way nearer to the scene, another SOCO officer, also hooded and masked, walked towards them, raising a hand by way of a cursory greeting.

  ‘Brian Scott, as I live an’ breathe,’ said the man, his voice muffled by the mask.

  ‘Aye, an’ who are you, Darth Vader’s fat white brother? Take that mask off so I can get a look at you.’

  The SOCO officer did as he was asked, removing his mask and pulling down the hood to reveal a shock of grey, almost white hair.

  ‘Duncan? It cannae be. Duncan Chisholm, is that you?’

  ‘It sure is, compadre,’ Chisholm replied. ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw you – twenty years ago, anyway.’


  ‘I thought you’d left the polis.’

  ‘Nah, swapped forces tae Lothian and Borders.’

  ‘Is that no’ the same thing?’

  Chisholm chuckled. ‘Good to see you’ve lost none of your charm, Brian. I married a lassie from Selkirk. It was the sensible thing to do. She wasn’t keen on moving to Glasgow.’

  ‘Well, I can see the logic in that.’

  ‘Anyway, we’re all one happy family now. Police Scotland has brought us all back together.’

  ‘An’ you get tae be a real cop again. Magic stuff, Duncan,’ said Scott with a wink.

  ‘Chief Inspector Chisholm, can I have a word?’ The now familiar figure of Professor Francombe was making her way towards the three police officers.

  ‘Chief Inspector? When I knew you in Stewart Street you couldnae spell inspector, never mind chief. Promotion’s rapid wae that Edinburgh mob, right enough.’

  ‘You should have come with me, Brian. I tell you something for nothing, there was none of that good ol’ boys shite we had to deal with back in Glasgow, if you know what I mean. Best move I ever made. Chances for promotion were a hundred per cent better for the likes of you and me.’

  ‘They’d have needed tae be a thousand per cent better for me tae sniff a pip or two. You know how it is, Duncan.’

  ‘You still rocking the boat, Brian Scott? After all these years, too.’ He smiled, giving his old colleague a companionable pat on the shoulder. ‘Aye, it’s good to see you, Bri.’

  ‘When we’ve quite done with all our yesterdays, can I say something, please?’ said Francombe, clearly anxious to move the conversation along.

  ‘Sorry, Professor,’ replied Chisholm. ‘We’re all ears.’

  ‘Well, I’ve done what you asked and examined the remains – just a cursory glance. They’ll need to be analysed properly, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. What did you find?’

  ‘All three skeletons are female, relatively young, from what I can judge – not teenagers, by any means, but in the twenty-five to forty-year-old bracket when they died. As a guess, of course.’

  ‘And how long ago would that be?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Roughly? Oh, I’d say about twenty-five years ago or so. Not more than thirty. I can’t be absolutely certain, but I think it’s a pretty good educated guess.’

  Chisholm looked at Scott with a grimace. ‘Take you back, eh, Brian?’

  ‘Can I ask,’ said Scott, ‘if there’s any sign of foul play? I mean, have you any idea how these women died?’

  ‘The wrist of one of the deceased is broken. I can see that quite plainly. There is no sign of any kind of injury on the second, but the third has a piece of material wrapped round her neck. Too tight for comfort, I would say, but that’s just a guess.’

  ‘So she’s been strangled?’ asked Chisholm.

  ‘Chief Inspector, I cannot be more precise. She may have just had a thin neck – the material could have shrunk over the years. With what is remaining, it’s impossible to make that kind of judgement. All three could have died of some kind of soft tissue trauma, for all I know. I’m not really willing to speculate any further. It’s not my job, remember.’

  ‘So, Brian, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Chisholm turned to his colleague.

  ‘Grab a Granny?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Francombe, a shocked look on her face.

  ‘The Midweek Murders, they were officially known as, Professor,’ replied Chisholm. ‘Eight women from the Glasgow area disappeared in similar circumstances over a relatively short period of time. All aged in their late twenties to mid-thirties. Before your time, I would hazard a guess. Back in ninety-four.’

  ‘Hardly before my time – I was young, but there is something familiar about what you’re saying.’

  ‘We found five bodies in various places. Barely hidden at all – one washed up on a beach in Greenock,’ said Scott. ‘The other three, well . . .’ He looked down at the scene, still being pored over by the forensic team. ‘Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. Whoever killed the women just went away, or got fed up.’

  ‘Or died, Brian?’ Chisholm suggested.

  ‘Ach, any number o’ theories. Still, we never found the last three bodies.’ He looked back into the rough graves.

  There was silence for a few heartbeats, broken only when Francombe spoke.

  ‘I have to get on. But I take it that this means the site is closed down – for the time being at least?’

  ‘It does indeed,’ said Chisholm. ‘I’ll let you know towards the end of the day how we’re getting on, but absolutely no activity in this vicinity until further notice. We’ll have to check for more graves. Could take a while.’

  ‘We might be held up, but so are those awful windmill people,’ said Francombe, nodding at a large tipper truck that had just appeared in a flurry of blue diesel smoke at the top of the rise. ‘It will give me great pleasure to go and tell them.’

  ‘Leave that tae me, please, ma’am,’ said Scott. ‘This is police business now.’

  ‘As you please. I’ll go and inform my team. If you want us for anything we’ll probably be in the Douglas Arms in Kinloch. Nothing better to do.’

  ‘I can think o’ a whole lot o’ better things tae dae than hang aboot the Douglas Arms,’ remarked Scott as he watched her squelch her way back down the hill, the sun bright on her white forensic suit. ‘That’s a right pit o’ despair.’

  ‘You use another watering hole, Brian? Don’t tell me you’ve signed the pledge.’ Chisholm laughed.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’ve done, Duncan. Och, it’s a long story,’ he said in response to the bemused look on Chisholm’s face. ‘Better get back an’ tell oor Jimmy what the score is here. He’ll no’ be chuffed, neither.’

  ‘You don’t mean young Jimmy Daley, surely?’

  ‘The very man. He’s a DCI, too. Man, yous are just ten a penny these days.’

  ‘Did he not get himself into some hot water over this case – the Midweek Murders, I mean?’

  ‘If that’s what this is, aye, he did. But I’m surprised at a man o’ your exalted position jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Jimmy Daley. Big lanky lad the last time I saw him. Had a cracker of a wife, if I recall.’

  ‘Aye, an’ your hair used tae be red, Dunky. Times change, my friend. Listen, I’d better make tracks, get things organised up here and let Jim know what the score is. We’ll get some uniforms oot here tae take the strain. You’ll be here for a while, I guess.’

  ‘Oh yes. We’ll be here for quite a while – days, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  As Scott made his way back to his car, DC Potts in tow, his mind drifted back to the time of the Midweek Murders, or the Grab a Granny case as it had irreverently become known in the job. All of the victims disappeared in the middle of the week, having attended club events known throughout Glasgow as Grab a Granny nights because of the high proportion of older women who chose not to go out on the town at the weekend, either because they disliked the bustle or because they had to babysit on Saturday nights. Many were just prolonging a trip to the bingo, adding to the ‘Granny’ sobriquet. Grannies in some parts of the city could often be in their mid-thirties. The name had stuck, and now applied to most midweek dancing nights in Glasgow.

  ‘Aye, Jimmy won’t like this,’ said Scott under his breath, as he watched Potts show his warrant card to the tipper truck driver and send him on his way after a short explanation. ‘He won’t like it at all.’

  4

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley stood in Detective Inspector John Donald’s office, gazing deliberately over the head of the man seated behind the large, neat desk.

  ‘Why won’t you answer the question, DC Daley? Did you or did you not have a drink with Mr O’Leary when you should have been questioning him officially about a rather serious crime?’

  ‘I’ve told you, sir. I’m not in the habit of drinking on duty. I have too many
things to attend to every day, without doing so in a fug of booze. I’ll leave that to others,’ he continued, shifting his stare to Donald.

  ‘What does that mean, eh?’ Donald rushed to his feet, face almost crimson with rage. He balled his fists, but just as Daley prepared for the verbal onslaught he’d become accustomed to over the years from this man, his superior took a deep breath, visibly took hold of himself and sat back down.

  ‘Feeling dizzy, sir?’ said Daley.

  ‘You won’t goad me, Daley. Just because you’re off to the Serious Crime Squad, don’t think you’ve stolen some kind of a march on me.’ Donald’s voice was slow, low and precise, the rage of only a heartbeat ago apparently gone, but more likely well hidden. ‘Remember, I’m the one with rank here, not you. Join any squad you like, but to make true progress in this job you have to be promoted. You don’t appear very good at that.’ He smiled sickeningly.

  ‘What are you implying?’ It was Daley’s turn to feel his blood boil.

  ‘Oh, just that wherever you are, the Squad, Fraud – the Court Branch, even – when it comes to your promotion I’ll hear about it. I pride myself on having assembled a pretty decent little group of contacts at the top of the tree, so to speak. A few words in a few ears . . . well, it makes a big difference.’

  ‘And everyone listens to what you have to say without question, I suppose?’

  ‘In one way or the other, you’ve been in my charge for the larger part of your pitiful career. Who better qualified to pass an opinion on your suitability for advancement than me? Grow up, Jim. This is the real fucking world, not the neat little meritocracy you imagine.’ Without further comment, Donald opened a file and began to pore over it.

  ‘Can I go?’

  Donald didn’t look up. ‘You can fuck right off.’

  Daley slammed the door and stormed back down the corridor to the general CID office.

  He only had three weeks more of Donald’s pointless jibes before he took up a posting to the Serious Crime Squad. Despite the way his current superior chose to brush it off, the move was a real feather in his cap. For Daley, life wasn’t about promotion, but rather experience. Freed from the likes of Donald and Sanderson, whose dead hand guided A Division CID, he hoped he could learn from proper detectives – men like his original mentor Ian Burns.