The Relentless Tide Page 30

  ‘I’m Milly Yorke,’ she said, shaking each of them by the hand then taking a seat in a high-backed leather chair. ‘My husband and I have been here for six months. We’re gradually tearing the place out of the nineteenth century, but I rather like this little room the way it is. Nathan works for a whisky company in Glasgow – in an executive capacity. We didn’t fancy holing up in the city, so we found this rather lovely little place.’

  ‘I wouldnae exactly call it little,’ said Scott.

  ‘No, well, I dare say it depends on one’s perspective. We still have a nice place in Buckinghamshire. We’re here for three years at least, so we thought we’d better put down some kind of roots.’

  Daley detected a slight note of regret in her voice and said, ‘Who did you buy the property from, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Ah, now, that’s where you’ll have to contact Nathan. He’s the man in the know when it comes to that sort of thing. I’m afraid I was rather more involved with the logistics of it all. You know, the move, finding new schools for the children, and so on. I left the buying side of things to him.’

  ‘We’re going into Glasgow next,’ said Daley. ‘Would it be okay to pay him a visit at the office? You can phone ahead and tell him it’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Can’t do, I’m afraid. He’s in Germany for the next few days – a sales trip. Some mega deal or other, you know the type of thing. I’m sorry, I feel rather useless.’

  ‘It’s okay. If we could have your husband’s details, perhaps we can contact him when he gets back,’ said Daley.

  ‘Hold on.’ She got up and rummaged in her over-sized handbag. ‘Ah, here we are. His card, all the details you require are on there.’

  ‘Thank you, and sorry to take up your time, Mrs Yorke.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said, ushering them back through the large hallway. ‘If you come across my boiler men on the road back, perhaps you could tell them to get a bloody move on!’ She laughed.

  As Daley and Scott went down the front steps back onto the drive she called them to a halt. ‘I do remember one thing.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ Daley asked.

  ‘The owner of the property died a couple of years before it was sold. Some relative of his was living here for a spell. I think I’m right in saying he was a police officer. I wonder if you know him?’

  ‘Was his name Chisholm?’ said Scott.

  ‘As to that, I couldn’t say. I just know he was a police officer, for some reason. Sorry, hopeless yet again.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Daley. ‘You’ve been a great help. I’ll contact your husband when he returns.’

  ‘Here,’ said Scott. ‘Thon’s a lovely wee duck pond you’ve got.’

  ‘Oh, we’re draining the damned thing. Our youngest – Harry – is rather mesmerised by it. He stands staring at it for hours. We’re rather afraid he’ll fall in and drown. I’m sad to say he’s a rather melancholy little boy. Anyhow, I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ She smiled again and waved them goodbye before shutting the big front door.

  ‘Just you get back in the motor and keep away from that pond,’ growled Scott.

  43

  Symington approached the white-suited men busy at work around the oubliette where Helen had been found. As always, this latest crime scene was cordoned off by striped police tape. Not being properly attired in a protective suit, she hailed the nearest officer, who loped through the long grass towards her.

  For some reason this place made her shiver. Maybe screams from the tortured and imprisoned of the past, bottled up for hundreds of years, were now free to roam in the minds of those in the present. She shivered.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, Constable Higgins, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like a word with DCI Chisholm. I’ve a couple of things I need to clear up with him.’

  ‘He’s not here, ma’am. Left for Edinburgh, some kind of family crisis. I’m told he’ll be back tomorrow. I thought you’d have been informed – perhaps DCI Daley . . .’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. Anyhow, have you managed to glean anything from this awful place?’

  ‘We’ve taken a few samples that might turn up something. I have to say, ma’am, more likely to point to Ms McNeil’s presence here rather than her captor’s. We’re checking to see if we can find who fabricated the cage she was kept in during some of her time in here. But if you ask me, it’s a DIY job, ma’am – an unusually thorough one, though.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’ve been doing these types of investigations for more than twenty years now, ma’am. You get an instinct for it. Most places of unlawful imprisonment are hastily improvised: desperate measures for desperate situations. This locus feels different.’

  ‘Go on, Constable.’

  ‘Well, though in essence we’re dealing with a structure that has been in place for hundreds of years, certain modifications have been carried out. For a start, there’s a small hard standing near the entrance, and a modern cast iron plate to top it off. Whoever did this planned it carefully, and must have worked on it for some time. We’ll also see if our colleagues can trace the iron closure, but the bets are on its being stolen, or appropriated in such a way as to ensure it’s untraceable.’

  ‘You mean, then, that whoever imprisoned Nurse McNeil intended to use the oubliette all along. It wasn’t just an improvised lucky strike.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, that’s right – in my opinion, at least. And, of course, nobody – well, hardly anybody – knew where it was. Ideal.’

  Symington mulled this over; the need to find and speak to Francombe was becoming ever more vital. ‘And what does DCI Chisholm say?’

  Higgins paused.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He hasn’t really expressed an opinion, ma’am. I think he must have things on his mind.’

  ‘He seems distracted, you mean?’

  ‘Well, what with the burials over the way and so on, he’s had a lot to think about.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Symington turned on her heel. ‘Let me know immediately if you manage to turn up something positive.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And tell DCI Chisholm I want a word the minute he returns.’

  She made her way back to the track where the old Land Rover was parked. ‘Any luck?’ asked Caron.

  ‘Luck? I never have much of that, my dear. But I’m fortunate enough to possess a few small talents.’

  She made a mental note to ask certain questions of Jim Daley as soon as possible.

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley stood to attention in front of ACC Taylor, staring at a spot on the wall above his superior’s head.

  ‘Sit down, Daley.’ The order was sharp and to the point – very different from their first encounter in this room.

  Daley did as he was bid, staring wordlessly back at the man who had given him the temporary rank of sergeant and placed him in the Serious Crime Squad.

  ‘You know, Jim, in a way I wish you had been prosecuted today. You deserved to be.’

  ‘Sir, I was only doing what I thought was right . . .’

  ‘Thought was right! Instead of making your suspicions regarding Sergeant Speirs known to me, you decided to get tanked up on whisky, go to his house and assault a fellow officer.’

  ‘I’d had a couple of drams. That doesn’t constitute tanked up. These are Speirs’s words.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Daley. Speirs now has the high ground. He’s the bloody hero in all this. Let you off from a charge that could have led to your incarceration. Never mind saving an undercover female officer in a botched operation led by you. He’s gained respect, while your reputation is in the dirt, son.’

  ‘I’ll hand in my resignation directly, sir.’

  ‘So, on top of everything else you’re a quitter, is that it?’

  ‘No, sir, but I know when I’ve made an arse of things.’

  ‘Ian Burns was right about your temper. It’s something that will
hold you back in this job, Daley. Assuming, that is, you still have the stomach for it?’

  ‘Of course I have, sir.’

  ‘I’ll give it to you straight, Jim. You’ve fucked our little operation up. I’ve spoken to the chief constable – who wanted to dismiss you, by the way – and we’ve come up with a suitable punishment for your stupidity.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You’ll report back to Stewart Street tomorrow. It was the only option.’

  ‘I don’t want to be back under John Donald, sir.’

  ‘Huh. Don’t worry – John Donald’s in the CID. You’re going back on the beat.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What did you expect, Daley, a pat on the back and a well done from the boss?’ Taylor’s face was reddening. ‘I’ve done my best for you – will continue to do my best. I managed to placate DI Donald, whom you also attacked.’

  ‘That’s a lie, sir. He did that to himself – bounced his own head off the wall.’

  ‘I can hardly believe all this. What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘He hates me, sir.’

  Taylor shook his head. ‘Anyway, with a bit of luck, I can get you back out of uniform in a few months, but it’ll take some doing.’

  ‘What about the Midweek Murderer, sir – about Ian’s murder? I can’t do anything in uniform!’

  ‘No, you gave up any chance of that when you punched Bobby Speirs on his doorstep. Cool your heels, Daley; keep a low profile. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to resurrect your career. Until then, pull the padlocks, run your finger across the plate glass windows, stand at the alarms in the middle of the bloody night and arrest the drunks and shoplifters. Report to the Two Group sergeant for the early shift tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Through his misery Daley thought for a moment. ‘What about Brian, sir?’

  ‘Our only consolation is that he can stay where he is – for the time being, at least. We haven’t lost all of our clandestine scrutiny of the Crime Squad.’

  ‘Good, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jim. This must seem like a black day, and it is – but not just for you. It’s a black day for all of us who want justice for Ian Burns, not to mention these poor women losing their lives to whatever monster we’re facing.’

  ‘Are you sure the monster’s not just down the corridor, sir?’ Daley’s narrowed eyes flashed as he made his suspicions more than clear to the ACC.

  Taylor sighed. ‘You’ve brought this on yourself, Jim. Tomorrow morning at Stewart Street, Police Constable Daley.’

  44

  When Symington returned to the office the first thing she did was call DCI Chisholm’s mobile number. She was about to hang up when he picked up.

  ‘Hello, ma’am,’ said Chisholm. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can tell me where you bloody well are, for a start.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, ma’am. At my rank you don’t suppose you have to check in with the line manager every two minutes.’ The reply was brusque.

  ‘All I ask is that you at least tell someone where you are – or answer your phone, which I note you haven’t been doing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, some family problems. I’ll be back in Kinloch tonight.’ He paused. ‘I’m prepared to tell you what it’s all about, but I must admit I’d rather not.’

  ‘We’re all entitled to a private life, DCI Chisholm. I’ll leave you to your difficulties. I hope you get whatever it is sorted soon. But I want to see you tomorrow morning in my office, the minute you get back.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She ended the call and looked around the office, seeking inspiration from the white walls, bare save for a few police information posters about road safety and a photograph of the Queen. She knew that the two men who had occupied this space before her had met with unfortunate ends – in one way or another, at least.

  She would find no inspiration here.

  Her desktop burst into life, indicating a video call.

  In front of the volumes of old books and dark wood-panelled walls sat Jonathan Stricklander, dean of Professor Francombe’s college. Symington noticed something different about him, which at first she couldn’t place, but then she realised that he’d removed his round horn-rimmed glasses and, in the process, a good ten years of age.

  ‘Hello, Professor Stricklander. I’m delighted to hear from you so soon. I hope you have good news?’

  ‘Well, yes and no would be the most fitting response to that, Chief Superintendent. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done my level best to help you, but the matter is now in the hands of our legal team, with whom you will liaise, should the need arise.’

  ‘So, what does that mean? I fail to see much good news in it.’

  ‘I can reveal one thing about Professor Francombe. Considering the seriousness of your investigations, in tandem with our responsibilities to our employees under the Data Protection Act, this is all I can offer freely.’

  ‘Spit it out, man!’

  Though his expression darkened at Symington’s tone, Stricklander raised his chin, carrying on with his superior manner. ‘I can confirm that Anthea Francombe changed her identity a while ago.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A few years ago. I can find the exact date, though I don’t have it in front of me at the moment.’

  ‘Now the next obvious question: why?’

  ‘Ah, as to that, you’re now in the territory of our legal people. I’ll give you their details. Best I can do, I’m afraid. By the way, have you traced her at all?’

  ‘No, have you?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Though I believe that these little absences aren’t uncommon?’

  Stricklander sighed. ‘No, they’re not. It would be helpful if she would carry her mobile as a matter of course. But as Anthea is one of the faculty’s best archaeologists, she has possibly been afforded more leeway than is perhaps good for her.’

  He gave Symington the details of the college’s legal team, ending the call perfunctorily.

  So, Caron was right. Perhaps Anthea Francombe had more to hide than even the gossips speculated upon.

  She stared around her temporary office in Kinloch, and resolved to find something to liven up the depressing décor.

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley sat in the muster room at Stewart Street Police Office, feeling uncomfortable and conspicuous in the uniform he thought he’d left behind for good.

  He knew many of the cops who shuffled into the room, yawning, drinking coffee, eating bacon rolls, or sucking mints in order to mask their over-indulgence the night before. Though a few nodded hello, smiling at him, he knew he was the centre of gossip in just about every station in the city.

  He wriggled in his chair. He’d filled out since he’d last worn this uniform, and had struggled to zip up the trousers and button his tunic. He resolved to put in a request for a new one.

  Two sergeants made their way rather wearily into the room. One of them, the newly promoted Sergeant Dunside, stood at the lectern and went through the usual procedure of relating what had happened on the night shift, listing the registrations of stolen cars, and issuing descriptions of missing or wanted persons.

  He was just about to allocate individual beats to each officer when the muster room door swung open, setting the badly oiled transom squealing.

  There, resplendent in an expensively cut grey suit, immaculate white shirt, dark green tie and well-polished shoes, stood DI John Donald. He searched the room briefly with his dark eyes, until they landed upon Daley.

  ‘Sergeant Dunside, I hope you can spare one today.’

  ‘I suppose so, Inspector. Take your pick.’

  ‘PC Daley, please. I have a job for him.’ Donald grinned, no mirth behind his eyes. ‘May I avail myself of your office for two minutes, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Oh, and remove Daley from the shift list for the foreseeable future. Come with me, Daley.’

  Their de
parture accompanied by a low murmur from the other officers, Daley followed Donald down the corridor and into the shift sergeants’ office. Donald took his old desk – the one at the back of the room – and summoned his subordinate to stand in front of it.

  ‘Jimmy, just like the old days, isn’t it? How’s your delectable wife taking this demotion, eh?’

  ‘None of your business, sir.’

  ‘Oh, just the fact you’ve been demoted – back into uniform as a lowly beat cop, must be a real dent in her confidence in you. But I suppose she’s happy you’re not currently residing at her majesty’s pleasure. Though from what I hear, perhaps she’d enjoy the freedom, eh?’

  Daley said nothing. He knew that his position was weak, and he was determined not to let Donald goad him.

  ‘Anyway, best not go over the past – never a healthy pursuit, if you ask me. Now, I would like you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Because of your intimate knowledge of the Townhead, I want you to spend some time up there. Lots going on, as usual. Drugs, nuisance kids, break-ins – well, you know the score, Jimmy.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Fine, then. Of course, these are mainly problems of the night, so I want you up there on night shift for a while.’

  ‘How long’s a while, sir?’ Daley was already resigned to his fate.

  ‘Oh, I’d say at least for the next three or four weeks. You will have your rest days in between, but who better to guard the good folk of the Toonheid in the dark of night than you, Jimmy. Fair takes me back, you know.’

  ‘When, sir?’

  ‘Report tonight at the usual time. The Four Shift sergeants have been informed. And look,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘Something nostalgic for you.’ He threw a small paper bag at Daley, who caught it deftly before it hit his face.