The Relentless Tide Read online

  He looked across the loch to the hills beyond. Just out of sight, the graves of the last victims of the Midweek Murderer were pegged down under a thick tarpaulin sheet. Symington had placed herself at the head of the investigation, but he wondered how well she could be expected to do, given her scant knowledge of the case, or indeed the times in which it took place.

  He supposed it was his job to fill the gaps in her knowledge, but how to do that? How could he convey the sense of failure and hatred that he felt, not just for the murderer, but also for some of his fellow officers who’d investigated the original inquiry? How could he make a modern police officer, someone who would find the job he’d been initiated into all those years ago utterly alien, understand the nuances and complexities of everything that had happened, and was happening?

  The mobile phone in his pocket vibrated into life. Noting the number of Kinloch Police Office, he sighed as he swiped the screen to answer.

  ‘Sir, I have Helen McNeil at the front desk.’ Sergeant Shaw’s tone was buoyant.

  Daley hurried back the way he’d come, passing the drunk man en route.

  ‘Hey, whoot’s the hurry, big chap? You damn near knocked me doon.’

  Daley muttered an apology, striding on. Maybe his luck was changing? Fat chance, he thought.

  With nothing to see, the seal disappeared beneath the waters of the loch in a flash of grey.

  Scott was taking a note awkwardly, one hand holding the phone to his ear, while he tried to write and keep the pad from slipping on his desk with the other.

  ‘So you reckon she’d got money – the lassie he married?’

  ‘Aye, she’d money all right – or her family did,’ came the reply, the voice sounding occasionally mechanical as the mobile signal wavered. ‘They had a big house in Ayrshire somewhere.’

  ‘Oh aye – any idea where? Ayrshire’s no’ exactly a village.’

  ‘You know how it is, Brian. See, at our age, your memory’s crap.’ There was silence on the line while Scott’s friend tried to remember the location of the property. ‘North Ayrshire, I think. Kilbirnie, Dalry – one of these places.’

  ‘Right, so they’d a big hoose there – doesnae mean they’re that well off. I mean, the Garnock valley’s hardly Beverly Hills. You can buy a mansion for two and six there, can you no’?’

  ‘They’d a pad doon in the Borders, too. But they’d got coin, all right. If I mind right her faither had a chain of bookies’ shops.’

  Scott scribbled down this information as best he could. ‘Any mair for me, Doug?’

  ‘He’d a right eye for the ladies, our Dunky. But you’ll remember that yourself. Mind he was shagging that inspector’s wife fae Baird Street? They reckon that’s why he took the plunge and swapped to Lothian and Borders.’

  ‘It never did him any harm, anyway. Dunky Chisholm a DCI! Fuck me, if I’d joined the Edinburgh polis, I’d likely be chief constable by noo.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t, Brian. You’re in the realms of fantasy there.’

  ‘Thanks for that vote of confidence, Doug.’

  ‘You know the likes of me an’ you have never been cut out for that caper, Brian. I’m retiring in six months, and I tell you, I’m counting the seconds, never mind the weeks.’

  ‘What are you going to do wae yoursel’ – store detective, or barfly?’

  ‘Now, in a way you’re right on the last one. Me and the missus are selling up and buying a wee bar in the Costa del Sol.’

  ‘Good luck wae that!’ said Scott, remembering Ella’s proposed change of career.

  ‘Just come over any time and me and you can chew the fat about the old days over a bottle of whisky or three.’

  ‘Aye, sure will. Listen, thanks for that, Doug. Good luck in Spain, mate. I might take you up on that offer,’ said Scott, too weary to explain yet again why he no longer imbibed.

  As he clicked off the phone and tidied up his notes, something nagged at his mind about North Ayrshire.

  As he was thinking, in swept DCI Jim Daley, Nurse Helen McNeil at his heels.

  Symington watched the car taking the Assistant Chief Constable back to the airport. Their meeting had been brief, but most certainly to the point. She was to take sole charge, with Daley in nominal command on the ground, while the Midweek Murder element of the investigation would be assisted wherever necessary by Bobby Speirs, who would shortly be on his way back to Kinloch.

  With much shaking of head and raising of brow, the ACC had gone over the progress so far with his chief superintendent, declaring that there was a ‘distinct lack of inspiration’ dogging the whole process, and that if Daley couldn’t deal with the past, or indeed his reduced personal circumstances, perhaps his deployment in Kinloch should be reassessed.

  All of this left Symington standing at her window as the unmarked car disappeared, feeling utterly miserable.

  Everyone had been so proud that she’d smashed the ‘glass ceiling’, and at an early stage in her career attained high rank. What those patting her on the back failed to realise was that it was hard – bloody hard at times – handing out orders to men who had, in some cases, been walking the beat when she was a toddler. The dynamic between Daley and Speirs added yet another degree of difficulty.

  In the aftermath of her boss’s visit, this was her immediate concern. She’d read the official files, and then heard more when the ACC had whispered a few undocumented truths about the events more than two decades before in her ear.

  There was a sharp knock at her door.

  ‘Helen McNeil’s just arrived at the office, ma’am,’ said Sergeant Shaw.

  ‘What, just like that?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. She’s with DCI Daley now.’

  She thanked Shaw, and, once he’d gone, slumped in her big swivel chair and breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was one problem gone.

  She turned her attention to her desktop computer, first consulting an email she’d received while talking to her superior, then initiating the Skype call that had been requested.

  The man who appeared before her on the screen – in her opinion – looked surprisingly young to be the dean of an Oxford college, but that was what he was. Jonathan Stricklander looked straight into the camera with a confident smile, volumes of old books providing the backdrop. However, even via this medium, Symington could detect a certain wariness beneath the projected composure.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Symington, I trust you are well?’ Symington heard a hint of the north of England in his baritone voice.

  The more she stared at his face, the more she felt that here was someone – replete with round, horn-rimmed glasses, bow tie, and a slicked-down side parting in his dark hair – trying to be something he wasn’t.

  ‘Hello, Professor Stricklander. As you know, I’m interested in finding out more about Anthea Francombe – the site manager of the archaeological team we have here.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I did see your email.’ He paused to cough. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Huge parts of her records we received from you are redacted. The work she’s carrying out here is hardly D-listed, so I just wondered why. As you know, we’re in the process of investigating a long-standing murder inquiry, prompted by the find made by the team. You will understand that I need to know as much as I can about the individuals involved, no matter how tenuous their association with the case. It’s just our procedure, Professor.’

  Stricklander hesitated for a few moments, fingers intertwined in front of his mouth. Then he replied, ‘Yes, I rather thought we could encounter this kind of problem.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘One of confidentiality, I’m sorry to say. As you must be aware, under data protection laws . . .’

  ‘I’m well aware of these laws, Professor.’

  ‘Yes, of course you are. But what I’m trying to say is that there are certain protocols I have to follow. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘What are we talking about here – is Francombe a rehabilitated mu
rderer, or something?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that; quite mundane stuff these days, in fact. But I must still consult with the wider university’s HR and legal departments before I can throw any light on what you seek. Also, in this world of public/private cooperation, our faculty is blessed by a partnership with Coredig. They’re an American company specialising in speculative archaeological projects across the world. Owned by one of these tech billionaires who has a passion for the subject . . .’

  ‘Not to stop you, I’m sure this little financial project is very beneficial. However, in what way does this have a bearing on my request, Professor?’

  ‘They are very keen on Anthea and her work – see her as rather a star, in fact. You know, telegenic, enthusiastic, all those things. More than likely the face of a potential streaming series on the subject – whatever streaming is.’

  Symington, who’d already had a difficult day, was not inclined to beat about the bush with a reticent academic. ‘Very well, Professor, by all means consult whomever you see fit, including this Coredig. But I’ll tell you this: I’m seeking a court order allowing me access to Francombe’s files, and if anything it contains has hindered this investigation I’ll hold you personally responsible.’

  Stricklander sat up in his chair, no doubt unused to being addressed in such a brusque manner. ‘I assure you, Chief Superintendent, that I’ll do my very best to provide you with the information you require. I just need time. You of all people must be aware how difficult it is to be governed by protocol, especially where a third party is concerned. Coredig have very deep pockets, and will, I believe, defend Professor Francombe’s right to privacy with every resource at their disposal. Do you see my concern?’

  ‘Be that as it may, I still want an unredacted file with me no later than tomorrow morning. I thank you for your time, Professor Stricklander. I’ll let you get on with consulting the people you must consult. A very good day to you.’ She smiled and leaned forward to end the video call.

  ‘Oh, before you go, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Would it be possible to get a message to her – Anthea, I mean? Please ask her to call me. I’ve tried her mobile on several occasions. I know the signal can come and go in places like Kintyre, but she hasn’t replied to any of my messages, to her phone or hotel. To be honest, I’d much rather what there is to tell came from her rather than me, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Professor.’

  With that, the call ended, leaving Symington wondering just what it was that was best heard from the horse’s mouth. ‘So you just wanted some time alone, Helen?’ said Daley, sitting in his glass box facing Nurse McNeil across his large desk.

  ‘Yes. I was fed up with all the attention – looks from my colleagues, questions from your people, not to mention the press. I’d just had enough.’

  ‘You must remember that I’m directly responsible for your safety, Helen. You’ve been abducted once; the last thing we want is for that to happen again.’

  ‘Well, I want to get away properly. Have a holiday away from all this.’

  ‘It’s difficult at the moment . . .’

  ‘So I’m effectively under arrest?’

  ‘No, but we must take your wellbeing into account. You must understand, I’m thinking of you.’ Daley searched her face, seeing a resolve hitherto absent in her manner.

  ‘Well, I’m going home to think. Do what you want, put one of your officers at my door – whatever you feel is necessary. I’ll think carefully about things, but I’ll also consult my solicitor. If I decide to go away for a while, I’m sure there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’

  Before he could reply, she was on her feet. ‘If you don’t mind, I just want to get home, have a long bath and get to bed.’

  As she swept from the room, Daley wondered what had happened to the timid, terrified woman he’d first encountered.

  ‘Jimmy!’ exclaimed Scott, bursting into his office without knocking, an uncharacteristic look of excitement on his face.

  ‘Don’t tell me – you’ve won the lottery.’

  ‘No, way better than that. I think I’ve found something big.’

  41

  Grim-faced, Jim Daley drove through the slanting rain in his SUV, Scott at his side.

  ‘Steady on, Jimmy, or you’ll get both of us killed, the rate you’re going,’ said Scott. ‘What the hell’s got you in such a foul mood, and why dae we have tae rush back to Glasgow?’

  ‘Here.’ Daley reached into his pocket and threw his mobile across in Scott’s general direction. ‘Read the last text.’

  After a brief struggle with the complexities of a strange phone, Scott managed to find what he was looking for.

  Be back in Kinloch this evening. No sign of Burns’s raincoat in forensics. Bobby.

  ‘What raincoat?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Ian Burns’s, surely you remember it.’

  ‘Aye, thon auld beige job. Came oot the ark. I wonder how it didnae fall tae pieces. It must have been ancient.’

  ‘He was wearing it when he died. I remember they retained it for future reference, even though they could get nothing from it at the time. If you remember, things were moving so fast with what they could do, it was standard procedure to retain productions that could possibly contain DNA or other evidence, just in case.’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ replied Scott, now concerned that the subject of Daley’s obsession – finding Ian Burns’s killer – was raising its head again.

  ‘Well, don’t you think it’s a bit odd, Brian?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so. Though I’m no expert on forensics, mind. Leave that tae Dunky Chisholm.’

  ‘And that’s another reason why I want to get up the road. We’ll take a trip to North Ayrshire while we’re at it.’

  ‘And they tell me Galt’s been talking up in the hospital. He’s in the RAH in Paisley.’

  Daley gripped the wheel even tighter. ‘So now you know why we have to get a move on, Brian.’

  Scott looked on as they took a long sweep of road at the head of Loch Fyne, its sheltering hills almost invisible in the lowering rain clouds, the speedometer hitting ninety. Now the ghost of Ian Burns was back, anything was possible. He stared at the big man driving the car and could see the turmoil in his narrowed eyes.

  Leaning forward, Scott flipped open the glove compartment where Daley kept some CDs. ‘Here, a wee bit o’ Bowie will help us on our way.’

  As the first bars of ‘Fashion’ throbbed into life, the brakes screeched as Daley took a sharp corner at high speed and Scott looked out of the passenger window, humming along to take his mind off the rapidly rising road ahead.

  Glasgow, 1994

  ACC Taylor sat with Daley in the holding cell at Glasgow Sheriff Court. They’d run out of conversation, but he thought he’d give it one more try. ‘Jim, if you plead not guilty like this, the case is cut and dried. Speirs has his wife as a witness – you did attack him. And, I must remind you, this was the second time in a few days. I’ve tried all I can. I’m afraid your career will be over. I think you’ll go to bloody jail! Plead guilty and we can do a deal with the Fiscal – at least keep you from going behind bars.’

  Daley was sitting head back, looking at the cell’s grubby ceiling. ‘But they’ll have to give me a trial. If I plead not guilty, they’ve no choice.’

  ‘Yes, sure. And the sentence will reflect the hassle. You’ll be found guilty – you know that.’

  Daley turned to look piercingly at him. ‘But trials attract the press, sir. This one certainly will. Maybe we can throw light on what’s been happening. Who knows, maybe one of them will break ranks, tell the truth. They must know there are people on their heels. Even Speirs isn’t that stupid.’

  ‘You think by sacrificing your freedom that Bobby Speirs and his mates will come clean and hold their hands up to possible corruption, even murder? You’re a fool, Jim. That’s something I didn’t take you for.’r />
  Despite his entreaties, Taylor could see the determination in the young detective’s eyes. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted this, you know.’

  ‘Who, Ian?’

  ‘Yes, Ian. The last thing he’d have wanted to see would have been you losing your job, ruining your life and fuck knows what else – for this. You know how slippery they are, we both do. We have nothing on Speirs – or anyone, come to that. Come on, Jim, plead guilty; salvage something from this bloody mess.’

  Daley remained silent, his jaw determinedly set.

  ACC Taylor got to his feet. ‘I need to go. If you won’t listen to reason, there’s nothing more I can do, apart from silence DI John Donald. You realise you’re on your own out there, Daley?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Daley’s eyes were back on the ceiling.

  ‘You’re a brave lad, I’ll give you that. What about your wife – how on earth does she feel about this? She must be worried out of her mind!’

  Daley pursed his lips and said, ‘Of course she’s not jumping for joy, sir. But she respects that this is something I have to do.’

  ‘Does she have any idea as to the potential consequences?’

  Daley’s silence spoke volumes.

  Just as Taylor was finally about to take his leave, a key sounded in the cell door lock. A young man with blond hair and a dark suit, bearing a bulging briefcase, was ushered into the small room by a court officer. It was Daley’s solicitor.

  ‘Is it time, Braithwaite?’ said Taylor resignedly.

  ‘Well, yes, ACC Taylor. Time for us to pack up and go home, in fact.’ The young lawyer smiled broadly.

  ‘What?’ Daley looked confused.

  ‘Mr Speirs – Sergeant Bobby Speirs – has withdrawn his complaint. Apparently, he informed the Fiscal that it was just high jinks that got out of hand – rough and tumble after a few too many drinks. The Fiscal has agreed. He’s not bloody happy, mind you.’

  ‘And he’s accepted this?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘Yes, sir. Detective Sergeant Daley has to wait to be processed – which will take a while, in my experience – but essentially, he’s free to go.’

  Taylor looked at his detective. ‘Well, though it hasn’t had the effect you were looking for, maybe there was some logic in what you tried to do here. Come on, don’t look so bloody disappointed, man. You’ve just dodged a rather big bullet.’