The Relentless Tide Page 3

  He rattled some change into the clanking coffee machine and waited as the muddy brew poured itself into a cardboard cup.

  ‘DC Daley!’ shouted a disembodied voice from the corridor outside.

  Daley stuck his head round the corner. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said a young probationary officer, clearly flustered by being sent into the realm of the CID from the uniformed section. ‘I’m to tell you they’ve found a body washed up on the shore in Greenock. They reckon it’s part of the Grab a Granny case.’

  ‘Thank you. Who told you this?’

  ‘Sergeant Meacher, the gaffer of Three Shift. You’ve to phone Greenock CID. He said to pass it on.’ The young lad smiled, not sure if he’d managed to communicate the message to the best of his ability.

  ‘Right, cheers. First, you can tell your sergeant that the case is called the Midweek Murder investigation. We’ve had enough hassle from the press as it is over this Grab a Granny nonsense – but that’s not your fault. Second, find me DC Scott, would you? I have an appointment I’ve got to keep.’

  ‘DC Scott is off out there now with DS Sturrock. You were with the DI at the time. He says he’ll let you know what’s happening.’

  Daley nodded and walked to his desk, sipping the hot coffee. As he watched the young cop hurry off, he picked up the phone and dialled two, the internal number of the head of Divisional CID, DCI Sanderson. He could have called DI Donald, but what would have been the point?

  Kinloch, the present

  Brian Scott walked through the corridors of Kinloch Police Office, yawning loudly. He’d been called out early, and he hated that. Despite what many thought of him, he was a creature of habit and order – of a kind – and any interruption to this well-trodden path resulted in irritability and a feeling, likely to last for the rest of the day, that all was not right with the world.

  Certainly, this was how he felt as he sought out his superior. Brian Scott knew that for Jim Daley the ghosts of the past had meaning, haunting him still, no matter how many times he tried to banish the dead faces he’d seen in the course of his career. One such ghost – or in this case, ghosts – was about to raise its head once more. Scott was sure of it.

  He chapped on the door of Daley’s glass box and opened it. His old friend and colleague was sitting behind his messy desk trying to manipulate something between the fingers of his big hands.

  ‘What are you at?’ asked Scott.

  ‘I’m trying to put a new SIM card in my phone. You ever tried it? Bloody nightmare. Liz used to do all this kind of stuff . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Aye, well, just you sit back. There’s bigger nightmares than that on the go.’

  Daley sat back in his chair, which squeaked in protest. ‘Okay, Brian. Do your worst.’

  The driver jumped down from the cab of the large tipper truck. He’d parked in a small lay-by just on the outskirts of Kinloch.

  He looked round; there was nobody to be seen, only a few interested cows in the field opposite, and some swooping seabirds. The odd car flashed past on its way into the town, but no one took any notice of the man in the light blue boiler suit as he turned his phone this way and that, desperately trying to find a mobile signal.

  He walked along the verge a bit, and without warning the full array of little bars appeared on the device. At last, he could make the call.

  He pressed the screen, then held the phone to his ear, waiting for a reply.

  ‘Aye, what do you want? Are you no’ busy up at the turbine site?’

  ‘Aye, I should be, but it’s been shut doon. The polis are all over the place. They’ve found some skeletons, or something.’

  ‘Oh, great. Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m up at the quarry on the Machrie road. Listen, whoot dae you want me tae dae wae the stuff?’

  The line fell silent for a few moments before the voice returned.

  ‘Park the wagon up and meet me at the golf club. Put the stuff in a bin bag or something.’

  ‘Right, nae bother.’

  ‘And don’t look like you’ve just smuggled out the crown jewels when you appear, or you’ll see bugger all of that wee bonus we’re talking about. Got it?’

  ‘Nae bother. I’ll be dead nonchalant an’ that.’

  ‘I can’t wait tae see that. I’ll meet you in about half an hour, Johnny.’

  Johnny made his way back to the truck. He climbed the small ladder and was soon back in the cab, a commanding driving position high above the road.

  The ‘wee bonus’ might mean little to the man he’d just called, but to him it was a beach holiday for the whole family – a good one, too. He revved the big diesel engine into life, drove to a farm road end, turned the vehicle and headed for Machrie.

  ‘What’re the chances?’ said Daley, the dismantled mobile now scattered on the desk in front of him. ‘Duncan Chisholm, too – I’d forgotten he existed.’

  ‘Looks mair like Gandalf the Grey noo. No’ a single red hair left in his heid. That’s what happens when you away an’ join Lothian and Borders.’

  ‘We’re all the same now, Brian. I’d better get Symington on the blower, then get up there and take a look myself.’

  He stared into space, a blank expression on his face, which Scott studied with no little trepidation.

  ‘Doesnae dae tae think too much aboot the past, Jimmy. It’s done and dusted. Whoever throws thon dice flung them a long time ago.’

  ‘But that’s not the case now, Brian. You know things have moved on – DNA evidence and so on. If these remains are the three missing women – if – then who knows what we’ll be able to get now?’

  ‘Big leap. First of all, we’re only guessing it’s them. Chances are they’re nothing tae dae wae the Grab a Granny case. Even if they are, there’s no sayin’ there’s any evidence in they graves. Big Dunky didnae look too confident.’

  ‘Big Dunky never looked too confident. Beats me how he’s a DCI – and a crime scene manager in SOCO, to boot.’

  ‘He says the same aboot you. Still thinks you’re a big lanky lad, by the way,’ said Scott with a smile.

  ‘Well, he’s in for a shock.’ Daley patted his stomach.

  Just as he was about to ask Scott more, the phone on his desk burst into life. He answered, and then cleared his throat as the call was put through from the main desk.

  ‘Ma’am, I was just about to call you.’ He listened intently, occasionally scribbling some notes on a pad of paper.

  The call ended, Daley stood up.

  ‘What’s up, big man?’

  ‘This gets more weird by the minute.’

  ‘Who, Symington? Aye, she has her moments. I widnae call her weird, mind you,’ said Scott.

  ‘Bobby Speirs – remember him?’

  ‘Aye, who could forget? I was at his retirement party – oh, aboot five years back, or so. He was blotto, but why change the habits o’ a lifetime just cos you’re retiring?’

  ‘Well, he’s not retired any longer.’

  ‘Eh? How’s that possible?’

  ‘He’s back. They’ve put him in charge of an experimental cold case unit. Guess where he’s headed now.’

  ‘But he was a useless bastard.’

  ‘Yes, but he’d a good friend, didn’t he – retired as an inspector in Inquiry.’

  ‘John bloody Donald. Speirs was his best buddy, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yup. So, now, to supplement his pension, he’s left to poke about old cases and see what he can discover. Too much of a long shot for full-time detectives, but just right for an old alky who has nothing better to do. Must have been one of the last favours Donald did. I’ve never worked with one of these old boys’ units. Can’t say I’m anxious to, especially now I know who’s heading it up.’

  Suddenly Scott looked worried. ‘They’re all coming out o’ the woodwork, Jimmy. You be careful. You and Speirs have history, remember.’

  ‘But there’s one man who won’t be coming out of the woodwork, isn�
��t there?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ian Burns, that’s who.’

  Scott sighed and shook his head. ‘I knew this would bring that a’ back tae you, Jimmy. I’ve just said, it’s a’ in the past. Best just tae let it lie, big man. Mind, you damn near lost your job o’er this before.’

  Daley looked at his old friend and smiled weakly. ‘But I’m older and wiser now, Brian. Plus, there’s a big debt I still haven’t honoured.’

  5

  Colin Galt examined the contents of the plastic bin bag. He was locked in a toilet cubicle at the Machrie Golf Club. It was a quiet day in terms of folk out on the course, and he needed time and space to think.

  He also needed somewhere to hide what he’d just been given by his driver. Sometimes he worried that this little project had gone too far.

  He double-knotted the bag, the items secure within. Stealthily he cracked the door of the cubicle open and looked around the large room. Relieved that there was no one to be seen, he hefted the bag over his shoulder and made for the exit, where he paused again to look about before sliding out of the Gents, down a short corridor past trophies and lists of club champions on wooden boards, and out into the car park.

  He pressed the button on his key fob, watching as the boot of his large Mercedes saloon swung open to reveal his golf bag. Moving the clubs to the rear, he placed the plastic bag in the boot, clicked the key fob again and waited as the lid closed automatically.

  ‘How are you today, Colin?’ The voice behind him made Galt jump.

  ‘Aye, fine, just fine, Wullie. This you off out for a round?’ he replied as breezily as he could.

  ‘Och, I’ll hit a few balls wae my auld buddy, nothin’ mair. An exercise in futility, but you know the game, Colin.’

  ‘Aye, tell me about it. Listen, need to dash. Busy at the work. Enjoy your day, Wullie.’

  Without waiting for the old man’s reply, he jumped into the car and set off. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest, relieved to be getting away without attracting more attention. He supposed he could have had Johnny give him the stuff in the yard at work, but there were far too many prying eyes about there. And knowing his luck, if they’d arranged to meet on a remote road half of Kinloch would have sauntered round the corner just as he was taking possession of the bag. In any event, it would have looked too suspicious. No, he was happy with the decision to use the golf club as a cover, and proud of the sangfroid he’d managed to display in the face of old Wullie. No one was any the wiser.

  He smiled as he swept past the first fairway on his way to Kinloch.

  ‘How’ye, Ronnie?’ Wullie was dragging his large golf bag on to the first tee.

  ‘A nice day for it. The usual fiver wager?’ Ronnie paused. ‘Young Colin Galt’s in a hurry, eh?’

  ‘Och, aye. The bugger’s up tae somethin’, it’s jeest fair lookin’ oot o’ him. He was stuffing a black bin bag intae the boot o’ that big car of his. Aye, just as furtive as you like.’

  ‘Jeest like his faither. He was a right sleekit bastard, tae. Widna put anything past him.’

  With no further comment, the two old men commenced their weekly round of golf.

  Daley stared at the skeletons in the three graves. Though each still had a powerful arc light directed down on to the remains below, it was hardly necessary, as the midday sunshine was bright, illuminating the hillside and the coast beyond in a golden light. The SOCO officers were still busy, scouring the scene for anything, however minute, that might help them discover what had happened to the people laid to rest in shallow graves only a few miles from Kinloch.

  He walked away, heading back up the hill towards the canteen tent his SOCO colleagues had turned into an impromptu base. DCI Duncan Chisholm, head of the forensic team, fell into step at his side.

  ‘You’ve put on a pound or two, Jimmy,’ he said with a shake of his head.

  ‘And you’ve not lost the knack of stating the bloody obvious,’ replied Daley tetchily.

  Chisholm raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s been a long time, right enough. How’s the wife – Liz, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fine, the last time I saw her.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Chisholm quickly changed tack, deciding the man he hadn’t seen for over twenty years seemed in no mood for small talk. ‘I can’t believe they’ve managed to drag Bobby Speirs out of retirement.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have bothered. He was bugger all use when he was a proper policeman, so I’m damned if I know what they think he has to contribute now he’s a cold case officer, or whatever it is they’re calling him.’

  ‘You bounced out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, Jimmy.’

  Daley hesitated. ‘Sorry, Duncan. It’s been a difficult few months, in and out of the office. It’s good to see you after so long.’

  ‘No change in Brian, mark you.’

  ‘You think not? Doesn’t touch a drop now – been on the wagon for months.’

  Chisholm was still assimilating this astonishing fact, now confirmed, as they walked into the tent, stiflingly warm under the hot sun. In one corner, two SOCO officers had set up a table on which sat various laptops, screens and other paraphernalia.

  On the far side of the tent, Daley saw a tall woman wearing shorts and a T-shirt fiddling with the zip of a large rucksack. She looked up at the new arrivals.

  ‘This is Professor Francombe, DCI Daley. She’s the on-site archaeological director,’ said Chisholm.

  The pair shook hands, her grip surprisingly strong. In fact, thought Daley, she looked very fit, tanned and full of life. The benefit of regularly working outdoors, he surmised.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m in charge of the sub-division down here. I’m sorry we’ve had to interrupt your work in this way. I promise we’ll be out of your hair as quickly as possible.’

  ‘That would be most welcome, DCI Daley. As I told your colleague, we were initially thrilled to discover the burials – stuff of archaeologists’ dreams. Not so thrilled when we discovered that they weren’t the kind of burials we were after. Those poor women.’

  ‘So you think there could be other people buried on the hillside?’

  ‘I very much hope so.’ She had a soft English accent, making her deep voice seductive to the detective’s ear. ‘Though his abbey is further up the coast, I believe that Somerled, Lord of the Isles, may have called this home. We know his followers brought his body back here to Kintyre after he was killed at the battle of Renfrew. Everyone thinks he lived further up the coast near the abbey, but I don’t agree. I think this is where he made his base. This would have been some kind of defensive structure, handy for the sea and the rest of Scotland, but even handier if he wanted access to the rest of his domains off the west coast. Just a pet theory of mine, Chief Inspector. Whatever the truth, much too important to let the site be destroyed by these bloody windmills.’

  ‘Very interesting. I’ve read bits and pieces about Somerled, but I can’t claim any expertise, I’m sad to say.’

  ‘So, you know more than your sergeant about the history of this place?’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Not DS Scott’s strong suit. He has many other qualities, though.’

  ‘Well hidden, mind,’ added Chisholm with a mirthless laugh.

  ‘I’m just getting some things together. I’ll be off in a few minutes,’ said Francombe. ‘I thought the university might recall us for a few days, but they want us to get on with admin work and stay near the site. We’re under pressure to get something significant or up go the windmills and we can wave goodbye to this place for ever.’

  ‘Not a fan of green energy, Professor? I thought an intellectual like yourself would be all for it,’ said Chisholm.

  ‘You policemen seem very interested in renewables. DS Scot asked me a similar question. Of course I’m in favour of sustainable energy – who wouldn’t be? It’s just that wind turbines are the least efficient and most damaging route to that. In my opinion, at least.’

  Daley spotted
a flash of passion in her deep brown eyes; familiar somehow, he thought. ‘Have you been on any of those television shows on archaeology? I think I might’ve seen you somewhere before.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been on a few. As a very minor player, though. Blink and you’d have missed me. In fact, my arse has had more exposure than my face – bent over digging in some pit or other while some minor celebrity tries to sound as though he knows what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Well spotted, Jimmy. Trained observer, you see, Professor,’ Chisholm put in. ‘Us detectives miss nothing, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. ‘I’m very glad to hear it. Anyway, I’d better make tracks. If you need me for anything, we’re billeted at the County Hotel, which we’ll make our operational base while we’re here. You’ll find us between there and the Douglas Arms – the County bar is rather too cliquey for us. Besides, we have some horse fanciers among our number, and the racing’s never off the box in the Douglas Arms.’

  ‘May I have your mobile number?’ asked Daley. ‘Just in case we need you for something urgently.’

  ‘Certainly.’ She fished into the rucksack and produced a small handful of business cards, handing both Daley and Chisholm one. ‘All my details are on there. I’ll wish you a good afternoon, gentlemen.’ Her expression changed. ‘I hope you can find out what happened to those poor women, I really do.’

  ‘Women? You seem very sure,’ said Daley.

  ‘As I told DS Scott, I’m an osteo-archaeologist, Inspector. It would be a poor show if I couldn’t tell the skeleton of a woman from that of a man. The configuration of the skull and the synaptic notch, you know. I’m sure your colleague will fill you in on all that. Good afternoon.’ She hefted the rucksack on to one shoulder and ducked out of the tent in a flash of bright sunshine that made the detectives blink.

  ‘Clever lassie. I’m no’ sure I’d like to get into a fight with her, mind you,’ said Chisholm.