The Relentless Tide Page 31

  ‘Get them on. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the gesture. Don’t feel you need to thank me.’

  Daley opened the bag. Within was a set of shoulder numerals, proudly displaying A 213.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get used to having those back on your shoulders soon. In any case, I think you’ll have plenty of time to reacquaint yourself with them. I don’t see much future for you now in the job – apart from being the good old beat man, that is.’ He grinned. ‘Back to the old days, indeed, my friend. Oh, and Jimmy, get a request in for a new uniform; I do believe you’re running to fat.’

  45

  Glasgow, the present

  Daley and Scott had driven to the new Police Scotland Forensic Unit. All windows and aluminium – steel and glass, as one of Daley’s favourite songs had it.

  They had an appointment with the Cold Case Unit Forensic team, and after traversing a number of brightly illuminated corridors from which emanated a multitude of chemical smells and the whirr or deep hum of complex analytic equipment, passing a number of white-coated employees, they reached the door bearing the number 3.24U.

  Daley knocked sharply and within seconds a young woman wearing safety goggles and a white lab coat opened the door, smiling at the detectives in turn. ‘The famous DCI Daley and DS Brian Scott – my goodness, I feel quite honoured,’ she said, removing her goggles to reveal bright green eyes.

  ‘Famous? How?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Oh, you know. You’re both so well known throughout the job,’ she remarked quickly, as though regretting her opening gambit.

  Famous because of my ruined love life, thought Daley ruefully. ‘It’s nice to be recognised,’ he lied.

  ‘I’m Adele McLintock,’ she said, shaking each man firmly by the hand. ‘I know the case you’re enquiring about – the Ian Burns murder from ninety-four, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daley. Even now those words made his stomach churn.

  ‘You’ll be aware that I had the cold case officer in charge of this inquiry here just yesterday?’

  ‘He’s not in charge. I am,’ Daley growled.

  ‘Oh,’ said Adele McLintock, clearly surprised. ‘Well, whoever is in charge, the result is the same. I’m afraid we are missing the crucial production. It was a gaberdine raincoat, I believe.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daley.

  ‘How could it just disappear?’ said Scott. ‘Can’t be a very tight ship aroond here, eh?’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, well, all I can say is that it’s definitely much more secure now. Back in the day, when no one was sure if what we’d kept would be of any use, it was very easy for a production kept in anticipation of improving technology to be removed and not returned. A scandal, I know, but long before my time, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘Do you at least have a record of who removed the item?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Ah, yes, in fact I do – well, sort of. Knowing you were on your way, I had a poke about. Found this in the old microfilm records. Thankfully, they’ve been digitised now.’ McLintock walked to her desk and powered up her computer. ‘Now, I filed it this morning . . . let me see.’ The tip of her tongue poked out between her shiny lips as she concentrated on finding what she was looking for. ‘Here we go, gents. Please, take a look for yourselves. Sad to say, it’s difficult to decipher. I haven’t a clue what’s written there.’

  Daley and Scott donned their reading glasses and squinted at the large monitor. The signature was in thick black ink, and to make matters more difficult, the magnification had distorted the lettering, so it appeared rough and ill defined.

  ‘Can you take it down a bit – in terms of magnification, I mean?’ said Daley.

  ‘Sure. Maybe I need glasses, I couldn’t make head or tail of it when it was at a lesser magnification.’ She pressed a button and the signature blurred then resolved itself, smaller, but much more clearly.

  Scott eyed Daley doubtfully. ‘You know the laws of evidence, big man. A decent defence counsel will rip shreds off this.’

  ‘Yes, but we know who that scrawl belongs to, Brian. And look at the date, that’s definitely ninety-six, yeah?’ Both Scott and McLintock nodded agreement.

  ‘Gosh, you’re good at this. I’m used to analysing DNA, not handwriting. Is that a C at the beginning of the surname?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, lassie, it sure is,’ replied Scott.

  Daley stood back from the screen, his jaw muscles clearly working under the skin of his cheeks. ‘I remember this case very well, Adele. In fact, I worked on it for a while back in the nineties. If I remember, they held one more item of Mr Burns’s clothing over just in case it would bear fruit using more modern techniques.’

  ‘Oh yes? What?’

  ‘A scarf. A black woollen scarf.’

  ‘Aye, I mind that,’ said Scott. ‘He never had the damn thing off – even in the summer. He was always cold, poor Ian. Mind you, there was nothing o’ him. Thin as a rake, man.’

  McLintock’s attention was back on the screen. She scrolled down a small list, clicking her tongue as she did so. ‘No, nothing listed here. The raincoat is all we have – or had, I should say.’

  Daley shook his head. ‘No, I remember it clearly. The scarf was definitely retained.’

  McLintock thought for a few moments. ‘Because of the very basic nature of computer systems at the time, I’ve known productions logged on the same day be catalogued under other case references in error.’

  ‘Aye, see they computers – just shite, if you pardon my French. I’ve said it since the bloody things came oot,’ Scott declared.

  ‘Not the fault of the systems – apart from perhaps some over-complicated input methods back then,’ said McLintock, her eyes glued to the screen. ‘But, like today, the system’s only as good as the people who work with it. Much more user-friendly now, mind you.’

  ‘You think? They’re no’ very friendly tae this user, I tell you that.’

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed McLintock.

  ‘I widnae say a middle-aged man no’ being able tae use a computer well is that surprising, lassie.’

  ‘No, here – take a look. This is the date of Mr Burns’s murder, yes?’

  ‘It is indeed,’ replied Daley, staring at the screen.

  ‘Look at the list of retained productions, sir.’

  Daley looked, his tongue this time poking between his teeth. It was the case of a man found murdered in Ayrshire on the same day Ian Burns lost his life. There, as he searched down the list, was item six: production number CS 70025/94. One black woollen scarf. ‘How can you be sure that’s it, Adele?’

  ‘Look, the rest of the productions have old Strathclyde reference numbers. CS is Central Scotland. I’m right in saying that Mr Burns was murdered in that force area, yes?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is that some oaf wae bugger a’ sense listed the scarf as a production in the wrong case?’ said Scott.

  ‘Well, I’ve seen it happen before,’ said McLintock. ‘With the older cases, I mean.’

  ‘Aye, accidentally on purpose, Jimmy, eh?’

  Daley nodded, grim-faced. ‘Can we find this and have it analysed, Adele?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. I’ll get on to it now.’ She hesitated. ‘Word of caution, though, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Even if this is the scarf in question, it’s still more than twenty years old. I’m just saying.’ She shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Dae your best, lassie. In any case, Jimmy, I think we’ve enough – between the hoose in Ayrshire and this – tae pull oor man in, no?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Daley. ‘I’ll call Symington now.’

  As he left the room to make the call on his mobile, Scott smiled. Despite the circumstances, it was good to see his old friend enlivened again.

  As Scott watched Adele go about her business, the door swung open.

  ‘Symington’s spoken to Chisholm, Brian. Apparently, he’s on his way back to Kinloch now. We’ll follow suit. There’s so
mething else, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, I’ll get you up to speed on our way down the road.’

  ‘You’ll have plenty o’ time, right enough.’

  They said their goodbyes to the forensic scientist, wishing her luck with the tests on the scarf.

  Within minutes, the pair were heading towards signs for the Erskine Bridge and Kinloch.

  Ella Scott arrived in the cosy bar of the County Hotel bearing carrier bags of various sizes, shapes and designs. The table closest to the bar was free – in fact, apart from one old man reading a newspaper by the fire nursing a half pint of beer, the place was empty. She set down her purchases and searched for her purse in her capacious handbag.

  ‘Here, that’s a lovely bag, Ella,’ said Annie, her smile fixed.

  ‘Och, it’s a great lump o’ a thing. My daughter gave it to me for my last birthday. You know yoursel’, the bigger the bag, the mair room for rubbish. I’ve got half the hoose in here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m jeest the same. When they big bags came intae fashion, I thought, whoot on earth dae folk find tae put in them. In a couple o’ weeks, I didna know whoot I’d ever done without one. Is it a wee gin and tonic, by the way?’

  ‘Less o’ the wee, woman! Brian might be off the drink, but his wife’s still boozing. You’ll have one yourself, I hope?’

  ‘You’ve twisted my arm, Ella. We’re quiet jeest noo. Mind, there’s a darts match on the night, so if I were you, I’d get that man o’ yours tae take you oot for a bite tae eat. It can get quite rowdy.’

  ‘I’m fae the Gorbals originally, hen. Rowdy is something I’ve been doing all my life.’

  Annie laughed. Despite the pangs of jealousy she felt, she couldn’t help liking Brian Scott’s wife. ‘I see you’ve been oot in the shops – such as they are.’

  ‘Do you know, I really enjoyed it. I hate they great malls that have sprung up everywhere. It’s great tae walk aboot in the sea air around some nice wee shops in the high street for a change. I got some wee presents for the weans.’

  ‘Aw, that’s nice.’

  ‘Well, I’m saying weans, they’re a’ growed up and oot the door ages ago. I fair miss them. Have you kids yourself, Annie?’

  ‘No,’ Annie replied with a sigh, pouring a large measure of gin for Ella Scott and a similarly sized measure of vodka for herself. ‘Och, I never found the right man.’

  ‘Trust me, there’s nae such thing.’

  ‘But you and Brian – well, you’re solid as the big island at the heid o’ oor loch, right?’ Annie tried to suppress the hope in her voice.

  ‘Aye, I dare say we are now. It’s no’ always been the same, I’ll tell you that.’

  Annie handed Ella her drink. ‘Here, have this one on the hoose since you’re a valued guest.’ She took a seat beside her. ‘It must be a lonely business – being the wife o’ a polisman, I mean?’

  ‘And not just any polis, either: we’re talking Brian Scott here. Honestly, he’s been in mair scrapes than . . . than anyone else I know.’

  ‘He’s right popular doon here. The folk have fair taken tae him – and Jim Daley, tae.’

  ‘He’s another worry.’

  ‘Aye, he’s no’ had his troubles tae seek, the poor man. How long have you known him for?’

  ‘Damn near thirty years.’ Ella stopped and took a gulp of her gin. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love him tae bits. But he’s a walking disaster when it comes tae women. A right brooder he is, tae – as deep as the Atlantic. It’s no surprise tae me that he’s ended up here beside it. Quite appropriate.’

  ‘You don’t like Liz, then?’

  ‘Indeed not. She’s the flyest, most manipulative woman that ever walked, if you ask me. How he never split up wae her years ago, I’ll never know.’

  ‘I liked her.’

  ‘You didnae know her, Annie. She cheated on that poor man mair times than you can count. I’ve always been civil to her – for Brian’s sake, you’ll understand – but I could have fair clawed her eyes oot many a time.’

  Before Annie could defend someone she’d come to think of as a friend, the door burst open. Hamish, two burly fishermen and young James Daley junior walked into the bar, all four laughing.

  ‘Whoot’s the joke, Hamish?’ enquired Annie.

  ‘Jeest an auld fisherman’s yarn, that’s all,’ he replied, walking stick in one hand, the toddler’s tiny paw in the other. ‘We’ve had a great day, haven’t we just, wee Jimmy?’

  ‘You better no’ let his mother hear you call him wee Jimmy,’ said Ella. ‘Oor Brian did it once and she near took his heid off. He’s James.’

  ‘Whootever,’ said Hamish. ‘Anyhow, whoot she canna see won’t harm her. While he’s wae me he’s wee Jimmy, is that no’ right, son?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Hameby,’ said the young boy, struggling with Hamish’s name.

  ‘Uncle, tae – did you ever?’ said Annie. ‘Here, son, we’ll get you a wee glass o’ juice. Mair like Great-great-uncle Hameby!’

  ‘I want a dram,’ said James, clearly and determinedly.

  ‘Noo, son, it’s only auld men like me that can have drams. Your daddy would arrest me if he came in here and you were getting knocked intae a whisky.’

  ‘But I want one. I like the smell!’

  ‘You jeest drink this, and if you’re a good boy you’ll get a packet o’ crisps,’ said Annie, placing his drink before him.

  James Daley junior eyed the beverage, sniffed it, then sat back in his seat, arms folded in disgust. ‘Bugger this rubbish,’ he said flatly.

  ‘See you,’ said Annie, pointing her finger at Hamish. ‘I knew you weren’t fit tae be in charge o’ a wean. He’s swearing like an auld fishwife!’

  ‘Noo, son, you’ve no’ tae say they words or your Uncle Hamish will get in trouble.’

  ‘But the boys on the boats say it all the time.’

  ‘Aye, that’s jeest because they have a limited vocabulary and their minds are fair pickled wae the drink. Is that no’ right, lads?’ said Hamish, addressing the younger fishermen with whom he’d arrived. They nodded heir heads obediently. ‘You see, a man should be judged by his manners and gentlemanly behaviour.’ He paused. ‘Hey, where’s that bloody drink, Annie? I’ve got a drooth like a smoked fuckin’ kipper here.’

  ‘I’d say your babysitting days are rapidly nearing their end, Hamish,’ said Annie, glowering at the old man.

  ‘Seconded!’ agreed Ella enthusiastically.

  46

  Townhead, Glasgow, 1994

  It was dark, cold and dank as Constable Jim Daley wound his way up to what was left of Parliamentary Road, cut across a patch of rough grass and descended a small hill towards the high flats that dominated the area of Glasgow known as the Townhead.

  This was his old beat, and now his new one.

  Depression weighed on him as he looked about, the tall street lamps picking out every drop of the heavy shower slanting past in their great orange pools of light.

  He cowered in his thin uniform raincoat, which appeared to be leaking somewhere over his left shoulder. He could feel the rain soaking through his woollen tunic and on to his shirt.

  Jim Daley had never had a particularly strong sense of entitlement, nor did he feel that life – or this job, come to that – owed him anything. But the sheer shock and disappointment of being back here in uniform, exactly where he’d begun, made him more dejected than he could ever express in words.

  Liz had been decent enough about the whole situation surrounding his foolish assault on Bobby Speirs, but he could sense the resentment she now felt towards him. Only days before she’d been bragging to her friends that her husband was a sergeant in the Serious Crime Squad, and now here he was back pounding the beat, a lowly uniformed cop.

  Distantly he could hear the squeal of tyres and the roar of an exhaust. About a hundred yards away, a car swung round a bend in the road far too fast, back end drifting out, loud music blaring from within.

  Pu
lling the torch from his pocket, he flashed it at the approaching vehicle, which screeched to a stop level with him on the roadway.

  The car was a customised Volkswagen, all blacked-out windows and go-fast stripes. It sported an over-long orange aerial, which swung in the wind like a whip.

  Despite obeying his command to stop, the car continued to blare music with no sign of movement behind the darkened glass. Daley leaned forward and knocked loudly on the driver’s window, mouthing the words Turn down the music, sure that no one in the car would be able to hear anything he said above the din.

  He was surprised when the racket stopped immediately. The windows, though, remained tight shut.

  ‘Right, wind down your window,’ he said, moving to the front of the car to check the number plate and radio it in in order to find out whether the car was stolen and to whom it belonged, an automatic procedure.

  He heard a click, then the front passenger door opened and out stepped a lean, wiry man, features hidden by the deep hood of his sweatshirt.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the driver of the vehicle, not you,’ said Daley.

  ‘I don’t give a flying fuck who you’d like to speak to, Constable Daley.’ The voice was familiar, the address riddled with disrespect and disdain.

  ‘Like I said, I want to talk to the driver of the vehicle,’ said Daley, the mic of his police radio now at his mouth.

  ‘Put it down!’ This command was sharp and emphatic. The man’s hands moved from the pouch in his sweatshirt, slickly producing a handgun in the beat of a heart.

  ‘I warn you,’ said Daley, his hand moving to his trouser pocket for his baton. ‘Put that away, now!’ He could feel his heart pulse in his throat, which had constricted at the sight of the firearm.

  With his other hand, the man removed the hood from his head, revealing sharp features, high cheekbones and piercing eyes, plainly visible despite the driving rain and poor light. His head was shaven, but his expression was unmistakable.

  Notorious Glasgow gangster James Machie was pointing a gun straight at Daley’s head.

  Kinloch, the present

  Daley was sitting in Symington’s office as she read the short report he’d compiled on arrival back at Kinloch Police Office.