Murder at Flood Tide Read online

  MURDER

  AT FLOOD TIDE

  The DI Jack Knox mysteries Book 2

  ROBERT McNEILL

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2019

  © Robert McNeill

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  List of characters

  More fiction by Robert McNeill

  Other titles of interest

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  Chapter One

  Soon after the barman had served him his pint, a young blonde at a nearby table glanced over and smiled. A mousy-looking brunette sitting beside her whispered something, then both women giggled.

  He smiled back, thinking she looked like a woman he’d picked up in Doonan’s a month earlier.

  A bitch he’d come so very close to killing.

  She had platinum hair, too – most likely from a bottle. Early twenties, slight build. Glossy lipstick painted on rosebud lips.

  On leaving Doonan’s she accepted his offer of a lift home, and on the way there he stopped in a cul-de-sac. They began necking, and a short time later moved to the back of his van.

  She hitched up her skirt and he unbuckled his trousers, only to discover that he couldn’t perform.

  ‘What’s the matter, darlin’,’ she asked with a hint of mockery, ‘too much to drink?’

  It was almost as if a switch had been flicked inside him: he seized her throat and began to compress her larynx. She quickly began struggling for breath, arms and legs flailing.

  He moved his knees in an attempt to pinion her thighs, then her survival instinct took over: she clenched her fist and aimed a blow at his head.

  Her punch caught the side of his mouth and he slackened his grip. She let out a scream, and seconds later a man’s voice sounded at the other side of the street: ‘Hey – you in the van! What’s going on?’

  He removed his hands from her neck and glanced out of the window, then she pressed her advantage. She gave him a shove, opened the door, and staggered outside.

  ‘Help!’ she cried, her voice now almost a croak. ‘Someone’s trying to kill me.’

  It took only a moment for him to clamber into the driving seat, start the engine, and floor the accelerator.

  He glanced at his watch as he joined the intersection and saw it was half past one. The cul-de-sac had been dimly lit and his lights switched off, so there was little chance the man had taken his number. He was equally confident the bitch hadn’t seen it either.

  The police would’ve been alerted, of course, but he knew the area and the twenty-minute drive home had proven uneventful.

  Just to be safe, though, the next day he contacted a mate with a half share in a commercial vehicle dealership in Broxburn. He drove there the following Monday and traded his van for a more up-to-date model.

  Suddenly a voice cut into his reverie, bringing him back to the present: ‘Quiet tonight.’

  The man who had spoken was seated on a barstool to his right. He was in his mid- to late-twenties.

  ‘Sorry?’ he replied, not sure he’d heard correctly.

  The man waved to their surroundings. ‘I was saying it’s quiet here for a Friday. Considering it’s Festival time. Tourists and the like.’

  He turned and gave the place a cursory glance. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not a regular.’

  The man nodded. ‘No, neither am I.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the exit. ‘After work I usually pop into the Greyfriars Bobby.’ He raised his pint and took a long swallow, then replaced his glass on the bar. ‘Couldn’t wait till I got that far tonight, though. Temperature’s given me quite a drouth.’

  ‘You work near here?’

  The man acknowledged this with a wave of his hand. ‘Aye. I’m a storeman with Carson’s Printers. In the Cowgate, just around the corner.’

  He nodded acknowledgement, but said nothing.

  ‘You’re on your own then?’

  He gave the man a quizzical look.

  ‘What I mean is, you’re not waiting for a girl?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no girlfriend.’

  The man leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Reason for asking,’ he said, ‘there’s a wee blonde at a table over there giving you the eye.’

  He took a swig of his pint and returned the glass to the counter. ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Thing is, I quite fancy her pal. What do you say to chatting them up? I think we’d be in with a chance.’

  He considered this for a moment, then picked up his glass. ‘Okay. I’m game if you are.’

  They walked over to the table where the women were seated, then he gestured to a couple of vacant chairs.

  ‘Mind if we join you?’

  The blonde looked up at him and smiled. ‘I don’t.’ She glanced at the brunette. ‘You, Shona?’

  Shona gave a little giggle, then shrugged. ‘Okay with me.’

  As they took their seats, he said, ‘My friend…’ He hesitated, giving the storeman a questioning look.

  ‘Joe,’ the man said.

  ‘Joe was just saying how quiet this place is for a Friday night. I told him I’m seldom in here.’

  Shona nodded. ‘It’s usually busier, this time of year anyway.’ She turned to the blonde. ‘Don’t you agree, Connie?’

  Her friend glanced at her wristwatch. ‘It’s five to nine,’ she said. ‘The tattoo starts at nine o’clock. There were a few tourists here when we arrived. Quieter now they’ve left for the Castle.’

  As she spoke, he appraised her features. She had an aquiline nose, blue eyes and unblemished skin. Up close, though, he saw dark roots at her hairline, confirming that, just like the woman he’d picked up at Doonan’s, the colour wasn’t natural.

  ‘So,’ Joe was saying. ‘You know the Quaich. I take it you both work locally?’

  Shona nodded. ‘Yes, Standard & Municipal Insurance at West Port. We’re in admin.’

  As her friend spoke, Connie maintained eye contact, smiling coquettishly. It was obvious she fancied him.

  He stood up then and indicated the bar. ‘Okay, Connie, Shona,’ he said, ‘what’ll you have to drink?’

  ‘Vodka and tonic for me, please,’ Shona said.

  ‘Fine. Connie?’

  ‘Daiquiri, please,’ she said. Then, fluttering her eyelashes, she added, ‘By the way, you haven’t told us your name.’

  ‘John,’ he said. ‘John Masters.’ He nodded towards his new-found acquaintance. ‘Joe?’

  ‘Pint of lager, John, thanks.’

  Chapter Two

  Detective Inspector Jack Knox was buttering a slice of toast when his phone rang. He wiped his hands on a dish towel, retrieved the cordless unit from the kitchen table, and pressed
accept.

  ‘Knox,’ he said.

  ‘Morning, boss.’

  Knox immediately recognised the voice of his partner, Detective Sergeant Bill Fulton.

  ‘Morning, Bill,’ he replied. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Aye,’ Fulton said. ‘I’d just arrived at the office this morning when I took a call from DCI Warburton. Apparently, he asked to speak to you. The desk sergeant explained I was early duty officer this weekend.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Knox said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He asked what time you got in. I told him nine.’

  ‘Something’s come up?’

  ‘Yes. Warburton went on to say he’d taken a call from Haddington Police. A man walking his dog on Longniddry beach found the body of a young woman.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Six o’clock this morning. The area where she was found is known as Longniddry Bents. Warburton asked me to come straight down.’

  ‘You’re there now?’

  ‘Yes. Got here just before eight. Uniforms from Haddington had secured the scene.’

  Knox said, ‘Our forensic team’s there?’

  ‘Aye. DI Ed Murray and his assistant DS Liz Beattie.’

  ‘And the pathologist?’

  ‘Mr Turley. Arrived fifteen minutes ago. Mr Murray tented the locus in readiness for the initial examination.’

  ‘I see. Warburton say anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Told me to ring him if the pathologist confirmed it was murder.’

  ‘Has Turley said?’

  ‘I’ve just had a word with him. He’s only had a brief look, but he thinks she’s been strangled.’

  ‘You passed that on to Warburton?’

  ‘Aye, just off the phone. He asked me to give you a ring. Said to meet me at the scene.’

  Knox checked his watch. ‘8.25,’ he said. ‘Where’s Longniddry Bents?’

  ‘Drive through Musselburgh, then left at Levenhall. Follow the B1348. It’s approximately three miles the other side of Port Seton.’

  * * *

  Knox arrived at the scene some thirty minutes later. The last two miles consisted of a series of bends which were heavily wooded on the right-hand side. A strip of hilly dunes and grassland obscured the sea view to his left.

  After rounding a third bend he came upon a police officer who stood with his back to a gap in the dunes, across which a barrier tape had been stretched. Knox stopped the car, wound down the passenger window, then flashed his warrant card. ‘DI Knox,’ he said. ‘Are the others in there?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the officer replied. ‘If you carry on through the bend you’ll come to a lay-by. You can leave your car there.’

  Knox parked where the policeman had indicated, opened the car’s boot and donned protective coveralls and overshoes, and headed back.

  ‘Find it okay, boss?’ Fulton asked when he arrived at the scene. His detective sergeant was heavily built and in his late fifties, and stood near two gorse-covered sand dunes where a forensic tent had been erected.

  Knox nodded, then indicated the tent. ‘Mr Turley with the body?’

  ‘Aye, boss,’ Fulton said. He pointed to the beach beyond, where two officers in coveralls were hunkered over a scattering of rocks. ‘They haven’t located her handbag yet. Mr Peter Taylor, the guy who found her, didn’t see the body at first. It was only when his dog found an item of the woman’s make-up – a compact, I think – and dropped it at his feet that he became suspicious. He walked over to the dunes here and discovered her.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Knox said. ‘I wonder what time the tide goes out.’

  ‘Same thought occurred to me,’ Fulton replied. ‘So, I asked one of the uniforms after I got here. Ebb tide is at approximately 4.30am.’

  ‘Did Taylor say where his dog found the compact?’

  Fulton gestured to the rocks that the forensics officers were examining. ‘Where Murray and Beattie are now, I think.’

  ‘So,’ Knox said, ‘depending on when the victim died, the tide might have been in.’

  ‘I’d say so, boss, yes.’

  Knox nodded towards the tent. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s time to have a word with Mr Turley.’

  The detectives walked over to the tent, and Knox pulled back the flysheet.

  ‘Okay to enter, Alex?’ Knox said.

  ‘Aye, Jack,’ Turley replied. ‘Come away. I’m nearly finished.’

  Alexander Turley was a stocky, bearded man in late middle age. He was kneeling beside the body of a young girl, which lay supine on a stretch of sand at the centre of the tent. A canvas holdall had been placed at the foot of the corpse, and a large leather instrument bag was positioned at the pathologist’s side.

  The young woman wore a floral-patterned blouse and a dark-blue skirt that was hitched up to her thighs. A matt of sand-streaked blonde hair framed her lifeless white face.

  Knox said, ‘How long has she been dead, Alex? Do you know?’

  Turley palpated the underside of the woman’s left arm. ‘Rigor in the smaller muscles just beginning to establish,’ he said, then turned to face Knox. ‘I reckon five or so hours.’

  Knox consulted his watch. ‘Sometime after four this morning?’

  Turley nodded. ‘A reasonable estimate.’

  ‘Any signs of sexual assault?’

  Turley shook his head. ‘No, Jack. None.’ He drew back the woman’s skirt and indicated her crotch. ‘Her underwear doesn’t appear to have been disturbed. I’ve taken a vaginal swab and it’s negative for semen.’

  ‘Bill tells me you thought she’d been strangled?’ Knox said.

  ‘I’m almost one hundred per cent sure now,’ Turley replied. He pointed to the woman’s face. ‘There’s a series of petechial haemorrhages on her cheeks and in her eyes. When I get around to a full dissection, I’m sure I’ll discover fractures of the laryngeal cartilage, the usual marker for strangulation. I’ll confirm later, of course, once I carry out a full PM.’

  Turley stood and took a sheet from the holdall, covered the woman’s body, then opened the tent flap and stepped outside.

  The detectives followed, then the officers who’d been examining the beach approached and exchanged greetings with Knox.

  DI Ed Murray, like Knox, was of average build and in his mid-forties. DS Liz Beattie was at least ten years younger; a slight, freckle-faced woman with shoulder-length hair.

  Murray held up a sealed evidence bag. ‘We’ve been searching for her handbag,’ he said. ‘But only found some bits and bobs of make-up.’

  Beattie nodded agreement. ‘Very strong ebb tide this side of the Forth,’ she said. ‘Most likely carried it out to sea.’

  ‘How far does the tide come in?’ Knox asked.

  Beattie pointed to the edge of the dunes, twenty feet from where they were standing. ‘This side of those rocks,’ she said.

  ‘How did her handbag get out there?’ Knox said.

  ‘The killer must’ve thrown it, boss,’ Fulton said. ‘Making it difficult for us to suss her identity.’

  Knox gave a thin smile. ‘I realise that, Bill,’ he said. ‘I was thinking aloud.’

  ‘Might be worth asking Haddington if they can spare some coppers to check the shoreline between here and Aberlady. When the tide comes in again, there’s a chance something’ll wash back,’ Beattie said.

  Knox nodded. ‘You’re right, Liz. I’ll get in touch. Meantime I’ll get one of the local radio journos to break the story. Someone might have reported her missing, but I’d like to make sure we get a lead on her killer ASAP.’

  Murray motioned to the stretch between the beach and the road, where gorse bushes and sand dunes enclosed a central tarmacked area. ‘Over there is a designated car park for folk using the beach,’ he said, then indicated a score of tyre tracks which criss-crossed a light covering of surface sand. ‘As you can see there have been a fair few vehicles here recently, any one of which could have belonged to the killer. Assuming he had transport, that is.’

  Knox looked
over and studied the tracks, then waved towards the road. ‘I think it’s safe to assume she was brought here by car,’ he said, then glanced back at Murray. ‘You’ll be checking the tracks anyway?’

  Murray nodded. ‘Of course. We’ll carry out an analysis as a matter of routine.’

  The forensics officer had just finished speaking when a horn sounded from the road. They looked over and saw a black hearse-like vehicle straddling the entrance, beside which stood two men in coveralls.

  ‘My assistants,’ Turley explained. ‘They’re here to take the body back to Cowgate Mortuary.’

  ‘You’ve completed your initial examination, Alex?’ Murray asked.

  Turley gestured to the forensic tent. ‘All I need to see here, anyway.’ Then he added, ‘Do you need another look, Ed?’

  Murray shook his head. ‘No, we’re finished over there.’ He waved to the tracks on the sand-covered tarmac. ‘Liz and I will get our equipment and make a start on the tyre prints.’

  Knox straightened and nodded to Fulton. ‘Okay, Bill and I had better head back to Gayfield Square.’ He turned to Turley and said, ‘Give you a ring later, Alex? Check for updates?’

  Turley nodded. ‘Fine, Jack. I should have completed the PM by early afternoon.’

  Knox turned back and smiled at Beattie. ‘I’ll get in touch with Haddington and see if they can scare up some bodies for a search of the beach.’ Then to Murray, he added, ‘You’ll let me know if anything develops, Ed? Either the tide or the tracks?’

  ‘As soon as, Jack,’ Murray confirmed. ‘I’ll give you a bell.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Have we ascertained her identity yet?’ Warburton was asking.

  He and Knox were sitting at opposite sides of a plain wooden desk in the DCI’s office at the farthest corner of the Major Incident Inquiry Room at Gayfield Square Police Station.

  ‘No, sir, not yet. The victim’s a girl in her late teens or early twenties. Nothing with the body except her clothes and shoes. DI Murray and DS Beattie recovered some items of make-up near where she was found, but no handbag. We’re guessing the killer threw it into the Forth.’