The Relentless Tide Page 26

  Chisholm straightened his back, his expression flicking from one of subservience to determined defiance. ‘You’ve no right to speak to me like that. I’m a bloody DCI too – it’s not just you. Watch yourself, Jimmy. From what I hear, your jacket’s on a shoogly nail after what happened to that wee lassie you were shagging. So don’t come the high and bloody mighty with me!’

  Guessing what Daley’s reaction was likely to be, Scott put himself between the two burly detectives, now both standing. ‘Wait, you pair. The troops out there can hear every word o’ this. There’s no war getting won this way – no, nor finding Helen McNeil, neither.’

  At that, the door swung open. Dressed in a red trouser suit stood Chief Superintendent Symington, a look of fury on her face. ‘Sit down, all of you,’ she said, firmly, though the anger in her voice was plain. She watched as they silently obeyed. ‘I could hear your little exchange down the corridor. Senior men like – like all three of you – are supposed to be setting an example, not turning this investigation into some testosterone-fuelled side show. If you have points to make, please do so in a manner befitting your respective ranks and seniority. I’ll not have this from my officers!’ Now her voice was raised.

  Silence reigned in the office for a few moments, as Symington pulled up a chair and looked at all three of her colleagues one by one. ‘I’ve just been summoned to HQ by the ACC. Though he had the decency to make his point in a professional manner, his message was very clear. It was a question, in fact.’

  Silence, until Scott spoke. ‘What was that?’

  ‘It was: what on earth is going on in Kinloch? Not a question I could answer at the time, but the answer is now glaringly obvious. I have three highly experienced detectives having a stand-up fight because, yet again, someone in our charge has disappeared.’ She stared at them. ‘Well, am I right?’

  This question was met with a muted response.

  ‘Well, the upshot of it is that I now have to take direct control of all operations relating to the Midweek Murder investigation, the case concerning Galt, Evans and Smyth-Browne, plus the second disappearance of Helen McNeil. From this end, at any rate.’

  ‘Bobby Speirs is behind this,’ said Daley angrily.

  ‘No, I’m behind it, DCI Daley.’ She paused. ‘It has become very obvious to me that there are too many axes being ground – too many ghosts at work here with you all. You all share a past – and from what I can decipher, not a harmonious one. I should have been on top of that from the start.’

  ‘Right. Now you’re in charge, ma’am, what do you want us to do?’ asked Daley, pulling himself together.

  ‘First of all, we start from scratch. I want a detailed report from each of you on the progress of the various investigations, to date. Then I want us all to sit down and coordinate a plan. Meanwhile, I want bodies out looking for Helen. How did she appear to you when you spoke to her, DCI Chisholm?’

  ‘Actually, I was surprised. She was quite bright. I’d heard she was a bag of nerves. She seemed, well, confident, assured. As though she’d managed to put her incarceration behind her already. She even cracked a joke or two.’

  ‘I’ve seen that kind o’ thing afore,’ said Scott.

  ‘What?’ asked Symington.

  ‘Och, a few times now, but one that sticks oot. A wee mate o’ mine – I’d been to school with him – great man for the doos.’

  ‘Pigeons, ma’am,’ said Daley, noting Symington’s puzzled look.

  ‘Aye, the pigeons – you know, racing them, ma’am. Big thing when I was growing up. You’d see they doocots all o’er the city. Big black jobs – mostly made o’ auld sheds an’ that . . .’

  ‘Do get to the point, DS Scott.’

  ‘Do – aye, very good, ma’am.’ Scott cleared his throat, realising that no one else seemed in a humorous frame of mind but deciding to press on regardless. ‘Well, tae cut a long story short, wee Geordie had a whole rack o’ problems. Och, his wife was having it off wae the bloke doon the street, his daughter was up the duff – aye, only fifteen, tae – money worries. I felt right sorry for him, but what can you dae?’ Scott paused, but seeing only nods of encouragement to conclude his tale, carried on. ‘Anyhow, after weeks o’ moping aboot he appears in the pub this night, all laughs and jokes, like. He spent a fortune buying drinks. Happy as a sand boy, so he was.’ Scott shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m missing something here,’ said Symington.

  ‘Och, they found him the next day. Flex o’ the light roond his neck – he’d jumped off the kitchen table.’

  ‘Oh, how sad. Taking your own life is always a tragedy.’

  ‘He didnae die, ma’am. You want tae have seen the state o’ the wiring in they council hooses back then. Bloody scandalous, it was. The wire just came through the ceiling – brought the auld boiler doon and it landed right on his leg. Poor bugger walks wae a limp tae this day.’

  ‘I’m struggling here, Brian,’ said Daley. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Well, even though he didnae die, he meant tae. That’s how he was so chirpy the night afore. As I say, I’ve seen it wae folk that were mair successful. Once they’ve made their mind up tae dae the business, it takes a’ the weight off their shoulders. I’m betting that’s what’s brightened up this Helen.’ He nodded sagely, convinced that his story had been a worthwhile contribution.

  ‘You have a way of really cheering people up, Brian, do you know that?’ said Symington.

  ‘Nae bother. Semper Vigilo, I live tae serve – it’s the force motto.’

  ‘That’s not what it means,’ said Daley.

  ‘What? I’ve thought that for thirty bloody years! What does it mean?’

  Before Daley could reply, Symington barked, ‘Reports, gentlemen. I’ll expect them in an hour. In the meantime, I’ll make sure our search for Nurse McNeil intensifies.’ She swept from the office, followed by Chisholm.

  ‘How well do you know Chisholm, Bri?’ Daley asked once they’d gone. ‘I didn’t really have much to do with him back in the day.’

  ‘Och, he was okay. Had an eye for the women, right enough. Quite successful he was. Him a ginger, tae.’

  ‘I want you to ask about – phone some old mates, see what they know about him.’

  ‘What about my report for Symington?’

  ‘What are you going to say? I fell asleep in the hospital and let Helen do one?’

  ‘Aye, good point, Jimmy. I’ll get on the blower now.’ He stared at the floor. ‘Will I get a brush and shovel and sweep up your favourite mug?’

  Anthea Francombe sat on a boulder, high on the hill overlooking the Kilmilken site. Inevitably, she’d had a hard time from the directors of archaeology at the faculty. She didn’t blame them, but needed time by herself. She’d always been proud of her organisational abilities, the talent to get things done. Yet here she was in the midst of a shambles.

  In front of her, the wind was pushing dark rain clouds across the Kilbrannon Sound, already discharging their load over the Isle of Arran. The waves were now white-tipped and angry. A small shellfish boat was being tossed around at the mercy of their peaks and troughs, its diesel engine puffing black fumes as it struggled to push the vessel through swell and tide.

  Near her, a gull had its head under a wing, grey and white plumage ruffled by the rising wind. Today there was no sign of the Ayrshire coast; it was hidden behind a curtain of grey cloud framing the mound of Ailsa Craig, an eerie shadow in the gloom.

  She stared down at the dig, particularly the three rough graves of the victims of the Midweek Murderer. She sighed, and out of nowhere a memory of her nose pressed against the window flashed into her mind.

  She was about to get up when she felt a crushing blow to her head. Though she saw stars and the world appeared to turn upside down, she managed to hold on to consciousness through the pain and shock, trying to stagger to her feet. She was strong, and swung round, albeit unsteadily, to face her attacker, fists bunched, instinct for survival taking over of i
ts own accord.

  Just before the next blow sent her into darkness, her mouth fell open in recognition.

  The gull removed its head from under its wing and soared into the slate-grey sky, wind doing the work of wings, its plaintive call an ancient intimation of danger.

  38

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley arrived home, thoughts of what Maggie Baird had told him in the car park still echoing round his head.

  Suddenly, everything made sense. Speirs – it had to be! He had connections with the army, Daley was sure. But the fog of recollection was thick and he would have to dig to confirm this. He recalled Burns’s theory regarding the murders he’d encountered as a young officer, and his warning about ex-army cliques who remained fiercely loyal to each other even though they were now wearing police uniforms.

  As he locked his car and searched for his house keys, he reasoned that, given he had a good few years’ more service than he had himself, Speirs could easily have fallen in with a group of old-school policemen, ex-soldiers covering for one of their own. Now he was at the heart of the Crime Squad, it would be easy for Speirs to deflect the course of an investigation, especially under the slack reins of DI Graham’s regime. Daley admired Graham’s skills as a detective, but his management of a team left a great deal to be desired.

  As he opened the front door, he encountered his wife. She was wearing the expensive dress he’d bought her for Christmas, her immaculately made-up face pointing to the fact that she was heading out somewhere.

  ‘Must be a posh party if you’re wearing that dress,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Jim, I told you about this weeks ago. It’s a girls’ night out – the old badminton crowd from uni. We’re going to the Fox and Hounds in Houston for a meal, a few drinks and a boogie.’ She sidled up to him, kissing his neck. ‘Mind you, the taxi doesn’t arrive for half an hour.’ She winked, directing her gaze to the stairs.

  ‘You’ve been on the wine already,’ he observed, smelling it on her breath.

  ‘Oh, is that a crime, Detective Sergeant? In that case, you’d better wallop those cuffs on me now.’ She held her hands out, lips pouting. ‘Bad girls have to be punished, don’t they?’

  He stared at her. She was always beautiful, but the smoky eye shadow and mascara highlighting her hypnotic eyes made her almost irresistible – almost.

  ‘Sorry, Liz. You go out and have a good time. I’m not feeling like . . . well, you know.’

  ‘You’re turning into a bore, Jim,’ she said, the seductive tone suddenly banished. ‘I know you’re depressed about Ian Burns – we all are. But you can’t mourn for ever. It’s not healthy – for you, or for me.’

  He stared back at her. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve other things on my mind, too.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  She stomped upstairs, no doubt to apply the finishing touches to her make-up.

  He poured himself a large whisky and sat at the table in the kitchen, sad and furious at the same time. He heard her footsteps on the floor above. She looked a million dollars – far too good for a pub in the next village. He often wondered about what she did when he worked the long hours that were the stuff of any police officer’s life.

  It was jealousy, pure and simple, and he had to banish it. Returning thoughts of Speirs soon refocused his mind on the hatred he now felt for the man.

  He was halfway through his second dram when he heard Liz rushing down the stairs. When she found him in the kitchen, she sighed.

  ‘Why don’t you sit in the lounge, darling? That’s what it’s for. This idea of your mother’s of keeping the front room for special occasions is so . . .’

  ‘So what – common? That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody hell, she kept the plastic wrapping on her suite! I mean, what’s the point?’

  He sighed, shaking his head. ‘I’m not in the mood for this, Liz. Go and have a nice time. I’ve got things to do.’

  A taxi horn sounded outside.

  She kissed him on the cheek and clicked out of the kitchen in her red high-heeled shoes. ‘Don’t wait up, misery guts.’ The door opened then slammed shut and she was gone.

  Daley poured himself another dram. A large one.

  Kinloch, the present

  ‘I’ve left messages wae a couple o’ mates who know Dunky Chisholm. They’ll get back tae me shortly,’ said Scott.

  ‘Right, good,’ replied Daley distractedly, staring at a clear board bearing photos of victims and suspects, joined by the usual lines of connection and scribbled notes. Though all the collected information lay in the limitless mind of a computer, Daley still liked to augment it with the old-style board. Yes, information on possible suspects could be gleaned at the touch of a keyboard from any force in the country and beyond, but this was something tangible. He focused on it now, desperately trying to force his synapses to make a connection, find the solution to the problem.

  ‘If there’s anything tae tell they’ll know about it. After all, me an’ you’ve no’ seen him for years.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘No, right enough, Jim.’ Scott shuffled from foot to foot, clearing his throat loudly.

  ‘What’s up? Ants in your pants?’

  ‘Nah, Jimmy, no ants. Mind you said I could take a bit o’ time oot tae view this hoose wae oor Ella? I mean, I know we’re busy and a’ . . .’

  ‘You’ve asked me once, Brian. You should know me well enough by now. It’s not as though you don’t put in the hours.’

  ‘Aye, true. I’ll be off, then. No’ be mair than an hour or so.’

  ‘I’m not counting. Have a lovely time,’ said Daley with a grin, returning his attention to the clear board.

  Scott decided not to drive. Though there had been a shower or two, they’d soon blown over in the strong wind. After all, everywhere in Kinloch was within walking distance of the County. Going to their proposed new house on foot would acquaint his wife more readily with the town than swishing through the streets in a car.

  Though he’d arranged to meet her in the bar, he was surprised to see her in the vestibule, walking a toddler up and down by the hand.

  ‘Is that who I think it is, Ella?’ he asked, somewhat bemused.

  ‘Yes, this is James Daley junior. Well spotted, Brian. It’s no’ like you to recognise weans.’

  ‘What dae you mean? I am a detective, after a’.’

  ‘Don’t you remember the time you took all they photos of oor weans at the sports day?’

  ‘Ach, that was years ago. Plus I’d had a pint or two.’

  ‘No’ one o’ them was oors. You’d a picture o’ near every other child in the school. Mind you, I’m no’ surprised you recognise this one. Eyes just like his mother. She should be ashamed of herself. What’s Jimmy saying aboot it?’

  ‘He never mentioned it tae me. Where is she, anyhow?’

  ‘Come wae me an’ you’ll hear a’ aboot it.’

  They walked into the County’s wood-panelled bar, Ella leading James Daley junior by the hand.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Hamish. ‘You’re here tae arrest me for child cruelty.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Scott.

  ‘Tell him what you were doing wae the wean,’ piped up Annie, polishing a glass while shaking her head at the old man.

  ‘Och, well now, you see, the wee fella was fair scunnered sitting in that hoose a’ day, so we went for a walk doon the pier.’

  ‘As did I, as luck would have it,’ said Ella.

  ‘Och, I don’t claim tae be an expert wae children. I thought he’d enjoy it – like the fun fair.’

  ‘They had him on a breeches buoy, being swung to and fro between two fishing boats. The poor kid was greeting fit tae burst,’ said Ella.

  ‘No, no’ greetin’. Sure, the wean was fair enjoying himsel’. Those were cries o’ laughter you heard.’ Hamish tutted in disgust.

  ‘Tell him whoot you fed the boy,’ said Annie.

  ‘A roll, square sausage an’ a tatty
scone – aye, wae a wee bit brown sauce. Fine, wholesome food. He couldna quite manage it whole, but once I’d chewed a wee bit off it for him, he was in fine trim. Fair wolfed it doon, so he did.’

  ‘Damn near choked,’ said Annie. ‘And anyhow, how unhygienic is that, you chewing food wae they auld falsers o’ yours and then handing it tae a child?’

  ‘Sure, the gulls dae it a’ the time, and there’s nae shortage o’ them aboot. You jeest need tae open a poke o’ chips doon on the esplanade an’ it’s like that Hitchcock film. Frightened the hell oot o’ me when I first saw it doon the wee pictures. Aye, me that had tae work amongst they vicious birds while fighting off the great Atlantic.’

  ‘Well, you’re lucky Liz Daley never clocked any o’ this,’ said Ella. ‘You’d be diving intae the Atlantic for cover. She’s no’ a woman tae mess aboot, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  ‘I’ve always liked her,’ observed Annie.

  ‘Right, one wean saved. No doubt I’ll hear a’ aboot why he’s here and where his mother is in due course,’ said Scott. ‘We need tae get on oor toes and go see this hoose.’

  ‘We’ll take young Jimmy with us,’ said Ella, putting the toddler in his pushchair. ‘Doesn’t it make you feel a bit broody, Brian? It does me.’

  ‘No’ in the slightest,’ said Scott.

  They said goodbye to Hamish and Annie, leaving the hotel with Jim Daley’s son in his pushchair, humming away happily to himself.

  Annie watched them as they walked through the big swing doors. ‘A bit broody! Did you hear that, Hamish? Her days o’ having weans are long gone.’

  ‘Right enough whoot they say,’ said Hamish quietly to himself, as he watched Annie head through into her little office. ‘Isn’t jealousy a terrible thing.’

  39

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley swirled the remains of his dram in the glass. He knew if he had another he would never carry on with what his mind screamed at him to do.