The Relentless Tide Page 25

  She flopped back on her bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, subconsciously counting them. When she got to seven she paused and sighed.

  How had the necklace from the dead woman come to be amongst the Viking jewellery? It was a question she’d gone over time and time again, coming up with the same answer.

  University had changed her: taught her many things, instilled self-confidence, an ability to trust her instincts and logical processes.

  It was that inescapable logic that tortured her now.

  There was someone else – someone she failed to legislate for. Not the hapless Galt; she realised very quickly he’d merely been prey to greed and the dubious charms of Marion. No, there was another mind at work here. Someone who had more knowledge of her objectives than she was comfortable they should have; someone with more on their mind than mere archaeology. Of this she was utterly convinced.

  What to tell the directors? That question now occupied her completely.

  Brian Scott was dozing on a chair in Kinloch Hospital, waiting for a chance to talk to Helen McNeil.

  He’d been roused by his alarm at five a.m., fumbling about in the dark, his wife breathing softly beside him. Daley had given him time off later in the day to show her the house the force had earmarked to be their temporary home, but meanwhile she’d be happy wandering about Kinloch, getting a sense of the place and the people.

  His only advice to her that morning as she’d wished him a tired goodbye was to steer clear of boats and the hotel’s black pudding, which always gave him heartburn.

  He yawned now and stretched.

  ‘You look as though you need this,’ said a nurse, bearing a steaming mug of tea.

  ‘Oh, you beauty! You’re an angel.’ He accepted the mug with both hands, taking a sip of the hot, sweet beverage that seemed to invigorate him almost instantly.

  The nurse stood over him, smiling. ‘I know exactly how you feel. Normal people – members of the public, I mean – don’t realise what shifts are like. I thought I’d get used to it, but they still turn my life upside down.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Scott, gulping down more tea. ‘They normal folk don’t know they’re living.’

  The nurse sat on the chair beside him, leaning her head into his conspiratorially. ‘Can I ask you a wee favour, DS Scott?’

  ‘Aye, sure. If it’s legal, definitely – if no’ I’ll have tae think aboot it.’

  ‘We were wondering – you know, us nurses – if you could tell us more about what happened to Helen. We’re all very worried about her. Even though we’ve been in and out doing the usual checks and things, we’re not allowed to ask her anything.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked surprised.

  ‘What, lassie?’

  ‘Just that when I saw your colleague in with her earlier, I assumed you would know a bit more about what happened.’

  ‘What colleague? Big Jimmy – I mean DCI Daley?’

  ‘No, I know him. This was another policeman I‘ve never seen before. The hospital manager gave him permission to speak to Helen.’ She looked at the watch she wore on her uniform top. ‘Must have been about an hour ago.’

  ‘Right, where’s this manager of yours?’

  ‘In his office, just down the corridor.’ She stood, looking startled. ‘I’m so sorry, I hope I haven’t got anyone in trouble. It’s just we’ve been so worried . . .’

  ‘No’ your fault, lassie. In fact, you’ve been a great help.’ Scott left the mug of tea at the side of his chair and marched off in the direction of the hospital manager’s office.

  A scene of carnage met Daley when he swept into his lounge.

  Hamish was sitting on a wooden chair, wailing toddler held on his knee with one hand, while in the other he brandished a walking stick at his huge cat Hamish, the animal hissing menacingly, ears flattened onto its head. Plants were knocked over in their pots, a vase lay cracked on the floor carpet, a mug of tea had been spilled on the table, and a modernist porcelain figurine that belonged to Liz lay smashed in the fireplace. In short, the room looked as though it had suffered the attentions of professional looters.

  ‘Jeest in the very nick o’ time, Mr Daley,’ said Hamish breathlessly above the din. ‘The big fella’s been trying tae execute a flanking manoeuvre, but I’ve managed tae fight him off wae my stick. It’s been touch and go, mind.’

  Daley met his son’s gaze, making the child bawl even more volubly.

  ‘Give him to me, Hamish. You deal with that bloody cat!’

  ‘Noo, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think. I mean, it’s no’ as though me and the big fella signed up for babysitting duties. The mood your good lady was in, it’s jeest as well I was here.’

  ‘Sorry, Hamish. This is all a bit of a shock to me too, I assure you.’

  Hamish handed him the toddler.

  ‘She telt me you’d been ignoring her calls and messages for days, so it’s your ain fault. She’s away on holiday – she left a note for you on thon ugly table in the lobby. I’m going tae fling some fish oot the back door. Himself canna resist a piece o’ herring. That’ll get him oot the road.’ Hamish ushered his formidable pet out of the room, while Daley tried to placate his son, with little success. James Daley junior was crying fit to burst, his only discernible comment ‘I want Mummy!’

  Shortly, after much screaming and wailing, Hamish sauntered back into the room, a white envelope in his big hand. ‘Here, I’ll show the wean the boats oot the window, while you get your glimmers on whoot Mrs Daley’s had tae say. I don’t ken a wean that doesna like boats, and that’s a fact.’ He handed Daley the note.

  As his son began to quieten, taking note of the loch and the sailing craft upon it through the room’s huge picture window, Daley felt free to open the letter left by his estranged wife.

  Dear Jim,

  I know your instant reaction will be one of anger and hatred, directed at me. In my defence, may I say, I am just as angry that you’ve failed to answer my calls and messages in the last few days. It appears you have little regard for your own son’s welfare. Whatever has passed between us, I cannot forgive this.

  You have no idea how tough it is bringing up a child single-handed. I know my mother helps, and money is of no concern, but it’s unhealthy for James not to have contact with his father. That is, assuming you want to remain in your son’s life, which, I must regretfully say, looks most unlikely at the moment.

  I really hope that will change – for the sake of our child, not me.

  I know you’ll be busy – there’s never been a time in our lives when you haven’t placed your work before our marriage. However, I’ve had to make so many sacrifices in my life in order to accommodate our son, I think it only fair that you take your turn.

  You may have guessed that I’ve met somebody – despite the drudgery of my domestic routine. We simply want a holiday in order to become better acquainted. I’m sure you know the feeling. Such a pity you and young Mary didn’t get much of a chance to really get to know each other.

  Or perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. I’m sure the scales of Cupid would have rapidly fallen from her eyes once she got to know the real Jim Daley.

  I’ll be gone for three weeks. If there’s a problem with James, my mother knows how to contact me – you have her number.

  Look after my son and live up to your responsibilities!

  Liz

  The note ended as abruptly as many of their conversations over the years had.

  Not that long ago, the tone of her letter, the thought of her with another man – his loss – would have been crushing. Now his lack of emotion surprised him.

  ‘See, there’s your faither,’ said Hamish, taking the child by the hand as they both, each rather unsteadily, made their way across the room in Daley’s direction.

  He took his son in his arms, embracing him. ‘Well, James, what are we going to do with you for three weeks, eh?’

  The boy looked him
squarely in the face, tears gone, and said quite calmly, ‘I want to see my mummy.’

  Daley jiggled him on his knee, his eye catching the smashed figurine on the grate.

  For the big policeman, it was uncannily emblematic.

  Brian Scott burst into Kinloch Hospital manager’s office without knocking.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ said the figure behind the desk, recognising Scott, and knowing something of his reputation.

  ‘What I’m up to is wondering who you gave permission to question Helen McNeil? You know I’ve been sitting for hours waiting tae speak tae her.’

  ‘You were sound asleep, Sergeant Scott – when your colleague arrived, I mean. He told me not to bother you. And as he was senior to you in rank, I did as he asked.’

  ‘What?’ Scott sounded exasperated. ‘I know it wasn’t DCI Daley, so who was this senior officer?’

  ‘I took a note of his name. Yes, here it is.’ He produced a pad from his desk. ‘Chisholm – DCI Chisholm. He left about an hour ago. I . . .’ The hospital’s manager was given no time to reply as Scott strode out of the office.

  He walked to the side room where Helen was being treated. A young uniformed officer was sitting by the door reading a newspaper.

  ‘McGougan, were you here when DCI Chisholm arrived?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ McGougan replied, immediately on his guard thanks to the look of extreme agitation on Scott’s face. ‘I mean, he’s a DCI – I had to let him in.’

  ‘So you did. But didn’t you think o’ taking a walk tae tell me? You knew fine where I was; I spoke tae you when I arrived.’

  ‘I was going to, but DCI Chisholm said you were getting some shut-eye, and he was helping out.’ PC McGougan looked perplexed.

  Scott stood for a moment thinking, then scrolled down his phone, finding the mobile number Chisholm had given him recently. He let the phone ring for a few moments, but no reply was forthcoming.

  Scott pushed past McGougan and entered Helen McNeil’s room. He gasped, finding her bed empty. Heart thumping, he checked the adjoining toilet and shower room, but Helen was nowhere to be seen.

  He went back into the corridor, where PC McGougan was still standing, looking concerned.

  ‘When did she leave the room, son?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Beyoncé, who dae you fucking think?’

  ‘I thought she was in there – she must have gone out of a window, or something.’

  ‘We’re on the second floor. She’s a district nurse, no’ a mountaineer.’

  ‘I swear, she’s never left the room since I’ve been here.’

  ‘Well, she must be able tae disappear at will in a puff o’ smoke, cos she ain’t in that room, son.’

  ‘Wait,’ said McGougan, his face crimson.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘When DCI Chisholm went in – you know, to question Ms McNeil . . .’

  ‘Aye, and?’

  ‘Well, he told me to go and grab a bite tae eat fae the canteen. I’ve been on since two, so I was a bit hungry. You know how it is, Sergeant.’

  ‘Great. So when you came back fae the canteen, you didn’t check inside the room?’

  ‘I was only away for ten minutes. I assumed that DCI Chisholm had questioned her and gone. I mean, there was no sound of voices from the room, sir.’

  Scott shook his head. ‘I’ll have tae get hold o’ DCI Daley.’

  ‘He’ll not be happy, I take it.’

  ‘Och, I widnae worry. He’ll be jumping for joy, cracking jokes, an’ all sorts. What dae you think?’

  As PC McGougan began to mumble a reply, he was disturbed by the hospital manager running along the corridor towards them waving a sheet of paper.

  ‘What’s this, peace for oor time?’ said Scott.

  ‘It’s a copy of an email I’ve just received. It’s from Helen. I thought I’d better print it out for you.’

  Scott grabbed the piece of paper and began to read.

  I’m so sorry to have left without telling anyone. I’ll be in touch later today. I just have to get my head round what’s happened to me.

  Don’t worry, please tell DCI Daley I’m safe. DCI Chisholm will explain.

  Regards,

  Helen McNeil

  Scott sighed. ‘If she’s as good at nursing as she is at disappearing, she must be bloody Florence Nightingale.’

  He dialled Jim Daley’s mobile number.

  37

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley trudged through the underground car park, his footsteps echoing in the big concrete space. It reeked of fuel, damp and urine, as these places always did. The walls were covered with various graffiti tags, sprayed to identify some of the city’s many gangs.

  He could hear water dripping before its sound was cancelled out by a vehicle leaving the car park from the floor above, via the narrow, twisting access ramp.

  He was surprised to see someone sitting on the bonnet of his car: a female, with her back to him.

  ‘Here, get off my motor!’ he shouted, suspecting this woman to be one of the prostitutes who occasionally used this place for their clandestine business.

  When she turned round, he was surprised to see that the woman was WPC Maggie Baird, erstwhile undercover cop.

  ‘Maggie, aren’t you meant to be in hospital?’

  ‘Nah, Jimmy, signed myself oot. Nothing more than a bit o’ a sore heid from whatever she slipped me.’

  ‘So you think it was definitely this Alison, yeah?’

  ‘Bet my pension on it. You know, now I’m thinking straight.’

  Daley nodded, appreciating her confirmation of the theory he’d suspected all along. ‘Pity we lost her, Maggie.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, Jimmy.’

  ‘I did wonder.’

  ‘I’m no’ in the habit o’ hanging about car parks, son. Unless there’s a cosy caretaker’s office wae a boiling kettle an’ a decent biscuit on offer. You cannae beat a good doss, Jimmy. Or have you forgotten that since you left your uniform hung up in the cupboard at home?’

  ‘The way things are going I’ll be getting it back out. The last few days haven’t been the highlight of my police career to date.’

  ‘Aye, I dare say. But that’s what I want tae talk to you about.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Right, even though I looked drunk, I didn’t feel as bad as I probably appeared. You know when you’re pissed – you cannae remember bugger all. Well, I cannae, anyhow.’

  ‘So you realised you’d been slipped a Mickey?’

  ‘No, not really, but things stuck in my mind.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like when that fight started, this Alison pulled me oot the club.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I remember being in the street. She telt me we should go tae her hoose an’ get a cup o’ coffee tae sober me up.’ She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t thinking right, but it seemed like a bonnie idea – under the influence, you know.’

  ‘So you couldn’t get a taxi? Just as well, Maggie.’

  ‘Not just that, Jimmy. I mind someone grabbing her and pulling her away.’

  ‘Must have been the rest of the team when they found you.’

  ‘Aye, it was.’ She bit her lip, the expression on her face troubled.

  ‘Come on, Maggie. You’ve not been sitting out here in the cold just to tell me that.’

  ‘I’ve been a cop for a long time – too long. The bloody job’s all I’ve got in my life, I’m sad to say. Time for a change, I reckon.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you’re good at what you do.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Jimmy. Something wasn’t right that night. Och, maybe I’m imagining it, me full o’ whatever drugs got slipped tae me, but you know what instincts are in this job by now, eh?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Well – between you and me, mind, promise!’ She looked pleadingly at Daley.

  ‘Of course – between you and me, that’s a pr
omise, Maggie.’

  ‘Well, I think they let her go – this Alison.’

  ‘What, on purpose?’ Daley was astonished.

  ‘Yes. We were surrounded by your lot and I remember her being caught by the arm and pulled away from the rest of us, and then I didn’t see her again.’

  ‘And who was doing the pulling – I mean who had her by the arm?’

  WPC Maggie Baird was silent for a while, staring across the car park. One of the neon lights, ready to break down, began to flicker. ‘I’ve never grassed up a colleague – never, Jimmy. Aye, an’ I’ve seen plenty in my time, I can tell you.’

  ‘Haven’t we all,’ replied Daley, meaning it. ‘So why now?’

  ‘This is serious. These poor lassies are being killed near every week. They’ve husbands, mothers – weans tae look after. But for the grace of God, I could have been one o’ them.’

  ‘So who was it you think let Alison go, Maggie?’

  She stared straight into his face, a tear running down her cheek, smudging her mascara. ‘Bobby. Bobby Speirs. I’m sure o’ it, Jimmy.’

  Kinloch, the present

  Brian Scott winced as Daley hurled an empty mug of tea to the floor, watching it smash into tiny pieces. Another officer, Duncan Chisholm, the object of Daley’s wrath, ignored the smashed crockery, attempting to weather the storm.

  Scott glimpsed raised eyebrows and astonished looks from the team of detectives in the general office outside. Daley’s glass box was soundproofed enough to mute general conversation, but not the onslaught being directed at the unfortunate Crime Scene Manager.

  Scott flicked the blinds closed; not that this would mask Daley’s roaring, but at least those outside couldn’t see what was going on. Maybe that’s worse, Scott mused for a moment, then cast the thought aside, determined to stop his old friend doing something he would regret.

  ‘I just wanted to know about what happened down that hole, Jim. I’ve got the boys on to it now. We’re hoping to be able to get some DNA. This could mark a huge breakthrough in the case.’ Chisholm was trying desperately to fight his corner.

  ‘Why not take Brian in with you?’

  ‘He was having a kip!’

  Daley glared at Scott, then redirected the glare to Chisholm. ‘That’s no excuse. You knew she was vulnerable – you knew she was at risk. What did you say to her to make her think doing a runner would be a good idea? Fuck, it’s not as though you’re wet behind the ears. You’ve behaved like a bloody clueless probationer!’