The Relentless Tide Page 34

  ‘But I didn’t.’

  As McNeil’s lawyer whispered in her ear, Daley looked at Symington. It was clear Helen was mentally ill. It could have been an act, a sordid performance intended to save her skin; a cynical attempt to be consigned to a hospital, rather than a prison. But Daley had seen such attempts many times before. He was sure that was not what he was seeing. This woman – probably all along – had convinced herself that she was innocent. His mind rolled back to the night when PC Maggie Baird was befriended by the woman in the tatty nightclub. Despite the years, he knew he was looking at the same person. It was so obvious now; again he cursed himself for missing it.

  ‘Why did you bury the last three victims here?’ he asked.

  McNeil took a drink of water. ‘It was getting too dangerous – for my father, I mean. It was to save him from being caught.’

  ‘So, while you were working in Kinloch for a brief time, years ago, you calmly drove the mutilated bodies of three dead women up a farm track and buried them in shallow graves on a hillside. Just what made you think of doing that, Helen?’

  Without warning, fire blazed in her eyes. ‘Because of him!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Duncan Chisholm.’

  ‘He advised you and your father to bury the victims somewhere remote, rather than dump them around Glasgow, or throw them in the Clyde, did he?’

  ‘Not before he’d had his way with them. He’s the real pervert!’

  ‘So he was involved with your father?’

  ‘He found out – don’t ask me how. He realised what my father was doing.’

  ‘Caught him, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, caught him.’

  ‘But instead of arresting him, he joined in with the attacks on the victims, then advised you what to do with the bodies so none of this would be discovered?’ asked Symington.

  ‘Yes, he did. Liked to keep little mementos, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Clothing, jewellery – bits and pieces. I hate him!’

  ‘Yet he helped you and your father – why?’ asked Symington.

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is that he took money from my father for years afterwards. Said he would have him arrested otherwise. He got thousands out of my father, the bastard! My father often referred to him as a friend. He was no friend. My father would still be alive if it wasn’t for the grief Duncan caused him year after year.’

  ‘Your father was in the army for a short time, wasn’t he, Helen?’ said Daley.

  ‘Yes, national service. Why do you ask?’

  Daley looked at Symington. ‘We’ll take a break.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Interview ends at fourteen thirty-two hours.’ ‘That’s Dunky Chisholm buggered, anyhow,’ said Scott, who’d been watching proceedings via a monitor. ‘I’ve got tae say, I don’t think anything in my career has shocked me like this.’

  ‘More shocks in store for you, I think, Brian,’ said Daley.

  ‘You mean that stuff I found out about the army?’

  ‘Yup. Time we had a chat with our other friend. I believe he’s lunching at the County.’

  ‘Here, what was that call you just had from Glasgow?’

  ‘All will be revealed, Brian.’

  ‘Fucking Ali Bongo, here.’

  The pair left Kinloch Police Office and strolled down the hill towards the County Hotel in the warm sunshine. Just about every face in the street turned to look at the detectives as they made their progress.

  ‘This must be how thon Wyatt Earp felt when he was heading for the Okay Corral,’ said Scott.

  ‘You’re no Doc Holliday, Brian.’

  ‘Aye, and you’re too big roond the waist tae be Wyatt.’

  They stepped through the big swing doors and into the hotel.

  51

  Annie looked up from her work at the reception desk as Daley and Scott arrived. Daley could see the curiosity on her face, but gave nothing away.

  ‘Is Bobby still at his lunch, Annie?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Aye, through in the dining room, right noo. He’s having the haddock on account o’ the lasagne being too dry. He likes his grub, Bobby, eh?’

  ‘He sure does,’ said Daley. He and Scott looked through the glass doors into the large dining room. There indeed sat Bobby Speirs, napkin tucked into his collar, his face flushed and jowly, his attention firmly on a more than ample plate of fish and chips. The dome of his bald head was pale in comparison to his red face, his fringe of hair from ear to ear giving him his familiar monkish appearance.

  ‘After you, Brian,’ said Daley, holding the door open for his colleague.

  Speirs looked up as the pair entered the room. ‘Now, boys, you’ll be out for a wee celebration, eh? Good result wae that nurse and big Dunky – the bastard,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Oh, I’m about to have the biggest celebration of my life, Bobby.’

  ‘Well deserved, I’m sure. Not every day you tie up a case that’s been on the go for mair than twenty years; and what a case, too, eh?’

  ‘Still a lot of loose ends to be tied up, Bobby. You know how it is.’

  Scott looked from one to the other. Daley had been acting strangely since his mysterious phone call from Glasgow. He’d been deflated by the arrest of Helen McNeil and Duncan Chisholm for their part in the Midweek Murders, which surprised Scott. Usually, having cracked such a case, he’d have been animated; euphoric, almost.

  Now, for some reason, Scott saw the fire burning in his eyes.

  ‘Take a seat, gentlemen,’ said Speirs. ‘Can I get you both a drink? Well, a ginger beer for you, Brian.’

  ‘Your father was an army man, wasn’t he, Bobby?’ said Daley.

  ‘Aye, then a cop. The reason I joined the job.’

  ‘Did you know he was Duncan Chisholm’s tutor cop – just before he retired, I mean?’

  ‘Aye, I do believe it was mentioned. For what it’s worth, he never took tae Dunky. Used tae call him “the Dandy” in they days. He was always dressed up for the women.’

  ‘I remember a story Ian Burns told me. It was way back in the sixties, not long after he joined up.’

  ‘Aw, let it go, Jimmy,’ said Speirs. ‘He’s been deid for years and you’re still banging on aboot him like he was still alive.’

  ‘Please, humour me this one last time, Bobby.’

  ‘If I must.’

  ‘He told me that two crimes had been committed – nineteen sixty-three, I think it was. He was a young cop on the beat. Two young women, last seen out on the town in the middle of the week. The next thing, their bodies turned up, mutilated, just outside Airdrie. They’d been raped.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, they never caught the perpetrator.’

  ‘No’ that unusual back then, Jim.’

  ‘No, but for some reason, Ian thought somebody – somebody in the force – was covering for whoever did it. Ian actually thought it might be a cop who’d done it.’

  ‘He’d some strange ideas, your hero.’ Speirs laughed.

  ‘Years passed, then we had the Midweek Murders. Ian saw that the MO was very similar right away.’

  ‘Oh aye.’

  ‘Always thought a cop was involved, that there was a cover-up on the go. He reckoned it was connected with the number of men who’d left the army and become police officers at the time – you know, old codes of loyalty, all that.’

  ‘As I say, it sounds a bit fanciful tae me.’

  ‘And yet, here we have a cop at the heart of the case – Duncan Chisholm, no less. The very man to whom your father taught the ropes.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Jimmy, just what the fuck are you driving at?’

  ‘Hold on, Bobby. I’ve not finished yet.’ Daley sat forward in his chair, his face close to Speirs. ‘Did you know your father served in the army with one Stuart McNeil? Best of mates they were, apparently.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Daley?’ Suddenly, Speirs’s expression had darkened.

  ‘Let
’s just imagine. An old pal of your dad’s murders a woman. He panics – comes to your father for advice, which he gets.’

  Speirs moved to get up, but Brian Scott placed his hand firmly on his shoulder, forcing him back into his chair.

  ‘Years later, for whatever reason, this old pal does it again. He gets away with it a few times, then gets frightened. The net’s closing in. Someone’s tipped him off that the boys in blue have their suspicions. A young cop gets involved – in the beginning out of loyalty to his old tutor. But he soon finds he enjoys what’s going on. He ends up as a more than willing accomplice. But someone gets wind of this – what’s going on. Has a word with his father.’

  ‘This is pish, Daley.’

  ‘He sets out to bring the whole thing to a stop – yes, to make sure that the killing ends, but also that no one pays the price.’

  ‘Bollocks. You’ve got some imagination, son. If you’re no’ careful you’ll end up on the beat again!’ shouted Speirs.

  ‘Ian Burns, and a few old hands, some retired, some not, get together. Ian has a theory. It’s passed on to people whose job it is to solve this kind of stuff. But, for his pains – his love of the police, its honour and integrity – he pays the ultimate price. Oh, he’s known for some time that something’s not right, so he decides to tell someone. Someone he can trust. He’s had threatening letters, and he’s worried. When the call comes from his trusted friend arranging to meet and discuss the matter, Ian jumps at the chance. It’s his last mistake.’

  ‘Fairy tales, Jimmy. You’re no’ right in the heid,’ said Speirs, Scott still menacing at his side.

  ‘Oh, I can prove it. You see, when the fuss about the Midweek Murderer dies down, Duncan is sent to remove any trace of Ian death from the Productions Unit. But some idiot’s made a mistake. They’ve lodged one item of clothing with the wrong case. A scarf.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you remember it, Bobby? I know you saw it.’

  ‘Crazy stuff. You’ll prove nothing, Daley.’

  ‘Techniques improve through the years, and when the scarf is tested now there’s blood on it. Granted, most belongs to poor Ian Burns. But he must have put up a fight, because there’s another trace of blood – just tiny, but there. It belongs to you, Bobby.’

  ‘Fuck this! I want a lawyer, right now. In fact, I want tae have words with the ACC!’ roared Speirs.

  ‘I hate you, Bobby – I hate you more than I’ve probably hated anyone. But I’ve kept my promise to a man who taught me what being a police officer was all about. Arrest Mr Speirs for the murder of Ian Burns, please, DS Scott.’

  ‘With pleasure, sir. With pleasure.’

  52

  The gulls soared in the blue sky as the two women unpacked the picnic from large cool bags.

  ‘Here, Ella, there’s the mayonnaise,’ said Annie. ‘Aye, it’s ginger beer only on this trip,’ she continued, looking at Hamish lighting his pipe and sending clouds of smoke into the warm air.

  ‘Aye, I know fine the wean likes it, don’t you, son?’ said Hamish, patting James Daley on the head, while feeling the heft of his hip flask of whisky in the bib of his dungarees.

  Scott was lighting a small shop-bought barbecue; nothing more than a tin tray with some solid fuel. He swore under his breath as the flame of a third match was extinguished in the breeze.

  Daley looked out across the Kilbrannon Sound. The sea was almost navy blue, contrasting with the white sand of the little bays dotted here and there. The air was rich with the scent of gorse and the tang of the sea, a hint of Hamish’s pipe smoke as a backdrop.

  A fishing boat, tiny at this distance, was heading past the Isle of Arran. Daley took in the sight of Goat Fell, then lowered his gaze to the field beneath them, where a small group of people were busy dismantling a large tent.

  ‘Just you watch your language, Brian Scott,’ chided Ella. ‘Mind there’s a young, impressionable pair of ears listening in.’

  ‘Oor Jimmy’s no’ that young – fair pushing on, eh?’

  ‘Like you’re standing still,’ replied Daley. ‘Remember, I still have the pictures of you assaulting that seven-foot chicken.’

  ‘He did what?’ asked Ella, mouth agape.

  ‘Yes, there’s no end to your husband’s cruelties, Ella.’

  ‘Aye, fine I know it. I didnae think he’d be cruel tae animals, mind you.’

  ‘Like it was a real chicken seven feet tall, Ella. Listen tae yourself, woman.’

  ‘I’m going to take a wee walk down to say goodbye to the archaeologists,’ said Daley. He left the Scotts discussing the merits of giant poultry and wandered through the long grass to the lane that led to the field below.

  As he approached the site, three mounds of earth sat in a row, a testament to lives lost and thoughts of a past he might now just be able to consign to where it belonged.

  ‘Hello, Professor,’ he said, approaching Francombe. Though she still looked tired after her ordeal at the hands of Helen McNeil, she smiled a greeting.

  ‘Congratulations are in order, I hear. Well done you. That woman is a monster; she deserves all she gets.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Daley, searching her face for emotion. ‘Is it okay if I have a quick word?’

  ‘If it’s about Bernie and Marion and their exploits, I’ve talked to your officers already. We need to get moving. We’ve another site to investigate next week down in Yorkshire, so time is of the essence.’

  ‘No, I know all about that. Lucky in a way – for us, anyway.’

  ‘Lucky? Why on earth do you say that?’

  ‘If Duncan Chisholm hadn’t removed that necklace and put it in among the recovered items to retrieve later as one of his gruesome mementos, I might not have cracked it.’

  ‘Lucky for me that this isn’t the only site she plied her grubby little trade from. There are a lot of very embarrassed site directors out there, I can tell you – me included.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure, Derek.’

  She turned to face him, a furious look on her face. ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said Daley.

  As they wandered slowly across the field, she looked up at him. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Not long. I remembered a young boy throwing a can of Coke over a WPC many years ago. It was on the pier at Greenock, where his murdered mother’s body had just been washed up.’

  ‘And I threw the water at your detective. Oh dear.’

  ‘How long have you known, more to the point?’ said Daley.

  She stopped and drew in a deep breath of the sweet-scented spring air. ‘I felt sorry for him at first. I’d just had my gender realignment operation at a private clinic. Things didn’t go according to plan, so they sent me to an NHS hospital, better equipped to deal with my problems. Being in hospital was my choice; he had none. I knew he was dying.’

  ‘Why Scotland?’

  ‘The academic world is a small one. Surgeons are academics too, of a sort. I chose a Scottish clinic to be out of the way.’

  ‘So, as you were recovering in hospital, you helped out. Talked to the older patients, ran little errands and the like until you were discharged.’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said flatly.

  ‘And then you saw Helen McNeil.’

  She gulped. ‘I was almost sick on the spot. I recognised her straight away. That awful cheap perfume she wore. I can still smell it.’

  ‘And then you made some plans.’

  ‘Not hard to get information from an old, dying man wanting nothing more than to confess, is it? He was on morphine for the pain by this time. He rambled a lot. I learned enough to lead me here. I cloned his phone, recorded his voice. It wasn’t hard.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, why did you want to change so completely?’

  ‘Simply, I hate men. Men killed my mother; men use women. I never felt male, and now I’m not.’

  ‘So you worked away.’

  ‘Yes. Soon I knew everything a
bout them. Him and Helen, I mean. I knew where the bodies were buried – literally.’

  ‘So you cloned his phone, and used a bogus theory to dig here.’

  ‘In short, yes. I pottered here on the pretence of carrying out some survey work. Came across the oubliette by accident, really. The farmer who owned the land wasn’t bothered what I was up to. I firmed it all up with a hard standing, a drain cover – an instant prison for my quarry.’

  ‘What about the cage?’

  ‘That was the hardest part. I made it myself in a small lockup I rent. I’m no welder – as you probably noticed.’

  ‘Why the calls and texts? Why not just come clean and tell us?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. I think I wanted her to suffer the way my mother had – the way I had. A child robbed of childhood and his mother; a pain that never goes away. Never!’ She looked up at Daley, rage in her eyes. ‘I was taken to England by an aunt, who brought me up. She was kind, did her best, but she wasn’t my mum.’

  ‘So, you made your plans – even down to a place of confinement. Quite a find – the oubliette.’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it? My finest archaeological discovery, and I can’t say anything about it. Can now, I suppose.’ She stared at Daley. ‘I can take the credit – now that I’m exposed, I mean.’

  ‘Who said you were going to be exposed?’

  ‘It’s your job, isn’t it?’ She looked astonished.

  ‘Yes. But someone told me, long ago, that police work has a lot to do with discretion.’

  ‘So you’re not here to arrest me?’ Astonishment was quickly turning to relief.

  Daley looked into her dark eyes. ‘No. I think you’ve been through enough. You should never have done the things you did, but you know that. If Helen had been an innocent victim of a deranged, deviant father, things would be different. But she knew all along what was happening to those women. She was willing bait for his hook.’

  ‘And what about Helen? She’s bound to say something – about me, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s about to take anything Helen says seriously. She’s a very sick woman.’ He paused. ‘Listen, Anthea, I can’t promise that some clever detective won’t make the connection, but it’s highly unlikely. Forensics have nothing, for a start.’