The Relentless Tide Page 32

  ‘And we’ve confirmed that the house near Beith belonged to DCI Chisholm’s brother-in-law?’ asked Symington.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I had a DC check it out with the land registry when we were on our way down the road.’

  ‘And you say that one of Helen McNeil’s father’s last requests was that money be delivered to that address?’

  ‘Yes. Not only that, we also know that DCI Chisholm was resident in the property at that time. He and his wife were house-sitting while the brother-in-law was in Singapore on a long business trip. Brian managed to trace his business, and the secretary was most forthcoming with his old diaries.’

  ‘Don’t you think they’ll tip Chisholm off?’

  ‘There’s always that possibility, but Brian told her she’d be an accessory to a murder inquiry if she did – and in any case her boss is on holiday, so I hope not.’

  Symington stared at Daley, deep in thought. ‘But apart from this, how can we connect DCI Chisholm with Helen McNeil’s father?’ She perused the report again for a few moments. ‘You’ve got to admit, Jim, this evidence is circumstantial. Even if the money was delivered to the house while Chisholm was there, it wasn’t necessarily intended for him, was it?’

  ‘No, Carrie, that’s true. But it’s a lead of some sort. I’d like permission to examine DCI Chisholm’s personnel file. As you know, I knew him years ago when he worked with Strathclyde, but I have no knowledge of his time at the old Lothian and Borders force – nor how his career began.’

  ‘Okay, Jim, I’ll do the necessary. Leave it with me. He’s due back here soon.’

  ‘If he comes back, ma’am.’

  ‘Do you think he has an inkling we’re on to something?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprised, though it would have to be instinct, especially since we’re not sure how this fits together ourselves yet.’

  ‘We have another worry. Professor Francombe’s still not turned up. I’ve requested information from her superiors, but it’s scant. Apparently she often goes off by herself exploring other archaeological possibilities – a proper loner. They seem relaxed – I’m not.’

  ‘No, me neither. If I can put the heavy hand on the shoulder of the university?’

  ‘Be careful, Jim. We’re in the realms of data protection and the lawyers are poised. But there’s definitely something in her past she wants to remain secret.’

  ‘Hard to do, these days, but it must be legal – if she has the backing of her employer, I mean.’

  ‘It’s a bloody mess, Jim.’ She threw her head back and sighed. ‘Oh, and worse still, Helen McNeil is determined to be off on holiday. What can we do?’

  ‘She’s been imprisoned for long enough, Carrie. Any attempt on our part to try to keep her here wouldn’t look good.’

  ‘My, Jim, you’re finally getting all this PR stuff – well done!’

  He smiled. ‘You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks, ma’am – it’s wrong. I suppose I’d better get up to the hospital and tell Marion Smythe-Brown about the loss of her lover.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve informed Galt’s family. I thought I’d leave this one to you.’

  ‘It’s Kinloch, ma’am; she probably knows already.’

  ‘Yes, more than likely, but there’s little we can do about that. Anyhow, I’ll get going on Chisholm’s files for you, Jim.’

  47

  Glasgow, 1994

  ‘You’ve been a naughty boy, Jimmy Daley.’ Machie’s gun was still pointed unwaveringly at the big constable. ‘No’ the most popular man in Strathclyde Police right now, eh?’

  ‘What would you know about it?’

  ‘Well, you’re standing here in a woolly suit and a crap raincoat, for a start. I think it’s fair tae say you wouldnae need much up top to work out that your career’s taken a wee bit o’ a nosedive.’

  ‘I’m calling this in, Machie. You don’t have the balls to shoot me.’ Daley pressed the button on the side of his radio mic, which squelched in response. ‘Two One Three to Alpha, Code Twenty-One, Kennedy Path at Parliamentary Road, over!’ His voice trembled as he said the words. Almost instantly, he heard the reassuring sound of the controller passing on the call for immediate assistance and his location to every officer in the division.

  Machie smiled, lowering the gun. ‘If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already, Daley. They tell me polis are being murdered all the time, recently.’ He turned to the car. ‘Right, boys, better make it quick!’

  As sirens wailed in the distance, three bulky men jumped out of the car, each brandishing a baseball bat.

  ‘Take this as a warning, Daley. Keep your mouth shut. That’s a message from some o’ your colleagues, by the way.’

  In seconds, Machie’s thugs, their bats swinging in the rain, were beating Daley mercilessly. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, he heard Machie’s voice.

  ‘Right, that’ll dae. Let’s get tae fuck.’

  As the first police car appeared at the scene, all that was to be found was the bloody, broken body of Constable James Daley, his world spinning out of sight.

  Kinloch, the present

  Daley and Scott trudged the short distance to Kinloch’s hospital in the gathering gloaming. It had been a long day and both men would have been happier sinking off to sleep between the sheets rather than keeping on. However, this was a murder inquiry and every stop was being pulled out. In his bones, Daley could feel that the answer they were searching for was close at hand. It was an instinct that rarely let him down.

  The lights at the hospital entrance shone bright in the gloom, like tree decorations on Christmas Eve. But there was little joy in what they had to do – so often the lot of a police officer: bringers of bad news, and worse times. Rarely did folk welcome a visit from the constabulary.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll sit this oot,’ said Scott, looking particularly jaded. ‘I’ve had tae tell mair folk about deid friends and relatives than I care tae remember. I’m desperately in need o’ a coffee, big man.’

  ‘Okay, Brian, you’re off the hook. Have a poke about and see if there’s any news on the intentions of Helen McNeil. She was at work today, apparently – someone might know something.’

  ‘Aye, aye, man. I’ll dae my bit, boss,’ replied Scott with little enthusiasm.

  Daley spoke to the duty nurse as Scott got ready to seek out the coffee machine.

  ‘I’ll not be long, Brian. Apparently she knows already.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise – the gossips strike again. Nae need for the News Channel doon here.’

  Daley cleared his throat and knocked on the door of the side room in which Marion Smyth-Browne was being treated.

  ‘I know why you’re here. Colin’s gone.’ She turned her head away on the pillow, but Daley could still hear her sobs.

  ‘How long have you known Colin Galt, Marion?’

  ‘A while,’ she replied feebly.

  ‘This is you and him way back, isn’t it?’ He showed her the photograph he’d got from his team’s search of Galt’s home.

  At first she didn’t look at the faded colour photograph of the two young people standing by the car, soaking up the sun from a summer many years before. Eventually, she nodded, fat tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘We should have made a go of it, you know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Bloody Kinloch – his business.’ Suddenly there was fire in her voice. ‘His father had been ill and Colin had to take up the reins.’

  ‘Was this when you were students?’

  ‘Yes, we met at university. I wasn’t bright enough to stay at Oxford – didn’t even get an interview. Clearing led me to Glasgow. I hated it at first, and then – well, I kind of fell in love with Scotland.’

  ‘And Colin Galt.’

  ‘Yes, and Colin Galt. But I couldn’t be trapped here, not even for love. It’s still a grim little place; nosy, tight-knit people. I hated it from the start. I thought Colin loved me enough to leave it all behind, but he didn’t.�
�

  ‘You kept in touch, though.’

  ‘Yes, we kept in touch. As you’ve no doubt worked out.’

  ‘How long was he involved in helping you remove artefacts from the sites you worked on?’

  ‘Nine, ten years or so. We always struggled to get small pieces out. They searched us archaeologists from time to time – you never knew quite when. But they weren’t clever enough to search any of the haulage contractors’ vehicles.’

  ‘So, you found things and secreted them away until Colin could pick them up?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She stared at Daley. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. We get paid a pittance – well, not enough to support my lifestyle, at any rate. When my dad died all that was left was a mountain of debt. It feels as though I’ve spent a lifetime with men who hide too many secrets.’

  ‘What about Colin – what was his excuse?’

  ‘The business was struggling, I think. He wanted to reinvest, but his father’s old partner would have nothing of it. Was happy with a couple of trucks and a bloody digger. Typical of this place – small minds, no ambition.’ She stared at the ceiling and again the tears began to flow. ‘But I loved him – always will.’

  ‘I want to ask about one item.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A modern necklace we found in Galt’s little haul. I’m sure you realise, Marion, it’s time to do some talking.’

  ‘Yes, even I know when to admit defeat. To be honest, given Colin’s death, I don’t care any more.’ She looked at Daley, her face swollen by tears. ‘Funnily enough, I do remember the piece. Bernie took it from a Finds Bag at Kilmilken. It was obviously a modern piece. Probably picked up by some rookie, and Dumbo hadn’t the sense to see that either.’

  ‘So, definitely from the main site?’

  ‘Yes, from the main site. I remember it because I joked with him about it.’

  ‘How do you feel about Bernie, now?’

  She stared at Daley, almost as though seeing him for the first time. ‘Have you ever lost someone you loved – I mean really loved?’

  ‘Yes, I’m rather sad to say that I have.’

  ‘Well then, you’ll know just exactly how I feel about Bernie.’

  Daley nodded, and left Marion to her grief. The confident – bordering on arrogant – woman he’d first met was now a pale shadow of her former self. Daley knew too well how the loss of someone special could eat a person up from the inside.

  Scott drained his coffee and frowned. The machine-vended brew had been bitter and unfulfilling. He realised that his coffee appreciation had risen rapidly on giving up alcohol. Sometimes he felt it a very poor substitute.

  He was about to take a wander and ask about Helen McNeil when an older woman interrupted his thoughts by asking him to move his feet while she swept underneath them with a long, newfangled mop. Short and plump, she was dressed in a pale green uniform, her grey hair lightly tinted with blonde dye; clearly one of the hospital’s domestic staff.

  ‘Haud your horses,’ said Scott, drawing his feet off the floor. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘They reckon we’ve got a surprise health and safety inspection tomorrow, so we’ve got tae be on oor toes. Those buggers are intae everything.’

  ‘No’ much o’ a surprise if you know aboot it already.’ ‘They book rooms in the County every time they come doon. Annie always tips us the wink.’

  ‘I would expect nothing less,’ replied Scott with a smile.

  ‘I hope Helen McNeil has a nice holiday. Whoot a time o’ it she’s had, the poor lassie.’

  ‘No, she’s no’ had her troubles tae seek, that’s for sure. I cannae imagine what she went through doon that hole.’

  ‘I hope you find the bastard that did it.’

  ‘So dae I. Mind you, it’s kind o’ hard tae get much oot o’ her. She doesn’t say a lot.’

  ‘She’s been the same since ever I knew her – way back tae when she was no’ long oot of training.’

  ‘Wait – I thought she’d only worked here for a few years?’

  ‘Aye, but this is her second stint.’

  ‘Second?’

  ‘Och, she was here filling in for maternity leave years ago. I’m one o’ the longest-serving members o’ staff here. No’ many will remember her fae then.’

  ‘How long ago are we talking, Mrs Glendinning?’ asked Scott, reading the name badge on her uniform.

  ‘Noo, let me think. Oor Davie was still at the high school, and he’s in his forties noo. Maybe twenty-five years, give or take.’

  Along the corridor, Scott spotted Daley leaving Marion Smyth-Browne’s room. ‘Jimmy, over here. You’ll want tae hear this.’

  ‘What?’ Daley made his way towards them.

  ‘According to Mrs Glendinning here, Helen McNeil worked at this hospital before.’

  ‘Enough o’ the Mrs Glendinning, April’s my name.’

  ‘Were you born in April?’

  ‘No, November, but my mother liked the name.’

  ‘When did she work here before, April?’ Daley asked.

  ‘Your man’s jeest asked me that. Och, I’d say early nineties, now I think aboot it. Ninety-three, ninety-four, something like that.’

  The two detectives looked at each other.

  ‘I cannae be sure, Jimmy, but when you think back . . .’

  ‘She fits the bill,’ said Daley.

  ‘Aye – tall, thin. It cannae be, surely.’

  ‘I jeest hope she has a nice holiday, cos she fair deserves it,’ April put in.

  ‘Do you know where she’s headed?’

  ‘Spain, I think. Aye, I’m sure she said something about Spain. Her flight’s tonight. I know that because she telt me she’d never flown at night – wisna looking forward tae it, neithers.’

  ‘Come on, Brian. We might still have time.’

  Without taking their leave of April Glendinning, the detectives bolted down the corridor and out into the cool, dark night.

  ‘Here, you!’ shouted the cleaner. ‘You’ve jeest left a great big streak o’ muck on my clean floor.’

  48

  Daley, Symington and Scott were gathered in the AV suite at Kinloch Police Office, their collective attention focused firmly on the massive screen in front of them.

  The concourse of Glasgow Airport was displayed, bustling with people – holidaymakers and businessmen and women – heading for the many scheduled flights. They thronged in all directions, despite the time of night. It was holiday season, and the place was still busy.

  ‘Here, big Dunky won’t be happy cooling his heels in your office, Jimmy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, Brian. I’m sure he’ll find something to do.’ Daley smiled knowingly, leaving Scott confused.

  The Kinloch officers listened intently to police radio traffic; the communication between plain-clothed officers invisible in the scrum of people.

  Suddenly the pictured blurred then resolved.

  ‘Tango One, target sighted, we have eyes on, over.’

  Despite wearing a floppy hat and sporting a large pair of sunglasses, Helen McNeil was easily recognisable, standing tall, a blue, wheeled suitcase at her feet.

  ‘That’s her, right enough,’ said Scott.

  She was waiting in line at the check-in desk, passport and boarding card in hand. With four people in front of her, the policemen in Kinloch almost held their breath as they waited for her to reach the head of the queue.

  Suddenly she looked distracted. She opened the handbag hung over her shoulder and produced her mobile phone.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Symington, a worried look on her face.

  On the screen, it was clear that Helen’s body language had changed. She had a very brief conversation on her mobile then appeared instantly flustered. Hastily, she dropped the phone back into her bag and looked about. Angling her large hat down over her features, she grabbed the long handle of her case, turned and walked purposefully away from the check-in queue.

  ‘She�
�s been tipped off!’ said Scott, barely able to contain himself.

  ‘She sure has,’ said Daley with a calmness at odds with his normal approach to such situations.

  ‘Tango One to all stations, move in on subject, over.’

  As Helen made for the exit doors leading out of the airport concourse, a number of figures jostled through the crowds towards her. In Kinloch, with a panoramic CCTV overview of the scene, this was obvious. But to those on the ground, the human net now closing in on Helen would be almost invisible.

  She had almost reached the exit when a man and a woman, casually dressed, also with suitcases, approached her, the man grabbing her firmly by the wrist. The woman with him deftly produced a pair of rigid handcuffs, and in seconds Helen was securely under arrest.

  In Kinloch they watched as other plain-clothes officers moved towards the arresting officers and their quarry. A few people had turned their heads to watch the tall woman being taken into custody. In the main, however, no one turned a hair at the proceedings; it wasn’t their business. They were departing or arriving on very different journeys from that of Nurse Helen McNeil.

  The operation had been a success – despite the mystery phone call.

  In Daley’s glass box sat DCI Duncan Chisholm. His face was ashen, and he was clearly unsettled when Daley and Symington entered the office.

  Symington pulled down the blinds as Daley settled in his large leather chair.

  ‘What’s this, a party or a torture session?’ said Chisholm, with forced humour.

  ‘What were you up to in the last couple of days, Duncan?’ asked Daley. He was direct, no preamble.

  ‘What? I had family difficulties. I explained that to my officers. I know they passed it on to Chief Superintendent Symington.’ He nodded at the senior officer, now seated beside him across from Daley at his large desk.

  ‘I know what you were really doing, Duncan,’ said Daley.

  ‘What’s this all about, ma’am?’ Chisholm turned to Symington, a bewildered look on his face. She made no response.

  ‘You visited a lockup in Airdrie, Duncan – on a number of occasions, in fact. Look, here are some pictures.’ Daley threw some large photographs across the desk at Chisholm, who examined them, maintaining the same look of bewilderment on his face.