DEATH WATCH

by Marie Rowan

  “Not tonight, you didn’t, Mr Costello, and a young woman has died a very horrific death at the foot of the coal-righ.” Costello sobered up immediately. His rough, red complexion paled to the whitest shade Pollock had ever seen and he turned away as the watchman was violently sick into the now-empty mince pot. “Never mind, I’ll speak to you later and you’d better be stone-cold sober when I do.” Ben Pollock quietly left the howf and the stale smell of drink and vomit behind him.

  Voices told him that the police surgeon had arrived and he made his way as fast as the freezing fog and night blackness would allow. He passed the remains of a light that had obviously been smashed by children somewhere in the mists of time. There was really very little that could be achieved because of the time and weather, and Pollock knew that his next move would be to interview the McDaids and any other potential witnesses in The Clay Pipe. That thought cheered him up slightly as Brigid McDaid’s cooking was not to be passed up. He was almost numb with cold now and he felt for Jacobstein who had been unable to escape from the icy chill even for a moment.

  He stood by quietly as Dr McPherson meticulously examined the woman. The slicing coal had been removed from on top of her and, in the beam of half a dozen strong, police lamps, the damage done to her was there to be seen in all its horror. McPherson stood up and moved across to Pollock.

  “Strangled. Also, every limb is broken.”

  “As we thought,” said Pollock still avoiding looking at the mangled body.

  “The primary cause of the destruction of the limbs, is quite unusual. Could actually have been deliberate stoning before the coal-righ came down on her. Did you figure that one out?” Both Pollock and Jacobstein were shocked. “I take it that it hadn’t occurred to you?”

  “Who in his right mind would do that? And why?” asked Pollock.

  “Hatred, jealousy or just for sheer amusement. Do you know who she is?” McPherson then shrugged. “Not that it matters a great deal to me as a police surgeon. Not long dead, a few hours.”

  “We’ve had a suggestion as to her identity,” said Pollock, “but hard to be accurate from a near-totally, mutilated face. We think it might be a girl called Lena Dolan.” Dr McPherson shook his head.

  “Best of luck, Ben. I’ll send you my report.” The doctor left along with the body and the detectives watched as the night watchman was practically dragged out of the yard by a few police constables and off to Camlachie police station.

  “Where’s Mr Roberts, the owner of these premises, Jake? Taking his time, isn’t he?”

  “He wasn’t at home when our boys called. According to his wife, children and Uncle Tom Cobley, he’s working late at the office.” The entire building was in darkness.

  “And according to his coachman?”

  “In the Ardhu Hotel admiring his secretary’s shorthand. The coachman’s in O’Rourke’s pub waiting to take Roberts back home. Roberts uses a cab on evenings when he’s supposed to be working late. That’s all he knows. Word has gone to the hotel and we’ll be bringing him back.”

  “You and I have had it here, Jake. They don’t pay us enough to freeze to death while Roberts pulls his trousers on in comfort and ushers his fancy bit down the back stairs. I presume our men have had a word with the security folk in charge of the Ardhu’s back stairs?”

  “As we speak. They are bringing Roberts and that report back in the same cab.” “Right, Jake, leave PC Proctor to man the side door till he’s relieved and to let Roberts know we’ll see him in The Clay Pipe.”

  “Wonder where her bag is? Robbery?” Jacobstein suggested.

  “Could be anything right now and it’s too dark and foggy for a proper search. It’ll have to wait until morning. After we’ve seen Roberts, we’ll make enquiries about Lena Dolan.”

  Chapter 2

  Some curious idlers thought the chance of a bit of a thrill well worth enduring the nasty chill and choking, filthy fog that had barely lifted. The whispers beyond the wall of the coal-yard stopped abruptly as Inspector Pollock and his sergeant stepped through the narrow door of the yard and into Great Eastern Road.

  “Get somebody to relieve PC Proctor in half an hour or so,” said Ben Pollock to Jacobstein. “That man can stay till I say he can continue on his rounds.”

  “You’d better catch him soon, Mr Pollock, or there’ll be no lassies on the streets at night till you do!” shouted an unknown voice. Pollock wondered why that particular piece of advice had be given to him. Loyalty was Pollock’s stock in trade, especially to his wife.

  “We’re working on it,” said Jacobstein loudly, stating the obvious. Pollock said nothing as he made his way smartly towards The Clay Pipe. He hesitated just before the well-lit entrance as the gas lamp outside the pub made a brave show of piercing the gloomy despondency created by the fog and the horrific death of a young woman.

  “Was that man implying that the victim was a prostitute, Jake?” Pollock asked.

  “A reasonable assumption, Ben.” Pollock suddenly cried out,

  “Proctor!” He waited until the PC had hurried along to him, his eyes still on the little door and anybody fancying a free bag of coal.

  “Yes, sir?” said Proctor saluting.

  “What’s the talk back there as regards the ID of the victim?” Pollock asked quietly. “Any names mentioned?”

  “Seems they all accepted Tommy MacNamee’s initial version, Lena Dolan. MacNamee’s been sounding off to anybody who’ll listen, and that’s everybody in The Clay Pipe, that it’s Lena Dolan.”

  “Occupation?” But Proctor shook his head.

  “God knows. I don’t. I think a lot back there are hoping for another victim, namely Wullie Roberts by name. He’s not exactly everybody’s favourite uncle.”

  “Really, how interesting,” said Pollock, “very interesting. Off with the old, on with the new perhaps. Now, I’m bloodywell freezing so it’s Brigid McDaid’s kitchen fire and talk for me. You’ll be getting relieved in twenty minutes so bear up till then, Proctor. And absolutely no-one gets into that yard before I get back in the morning. Cats excepted, of course, and rats of the four-legged variety.”

  The pubs lively conversation died the minute Pollock and Jacobstein entered and burst back into life when the kitchen door closed behind them. Glasgow’s East End had not figured too greatly in Pollock’s life until a year or two before and he was aware of suffering from a lack of intimate knowledge of the people of the area except the habitual criminals. Lena Dolan. The name rang no bells. Who had she been with and what exactly had she been doing in that coal-yard?

  “Mrs. McDaid.” Brigid went right on ladling out the potato soup.

  “First things first, Inspector Pollock. Wash, then eat, then ask.” Jake Jacobstein was already deep into the soap and hot water. Minutes later, both were alone in the pub kitchen as word had somehow filtered to all parts that WM Roberts himself was expected. The Clay Pipe’s kitchen was now an extension of the local police office.

  The deep, irritable and threatening voice of an ex-coalminer silenced all before it and Pollock was placing two soup plates into the deep sink as Roberts breeched the sturdy door.

  “Good evening, Mr Roberts, chilly outside, isn’t it?” Pollock smiled slightly which was indeed the best he could do and Jacobstein eyed the coal merchant slowly from head to toe. He did not like what he saw.

  “You’ve missed a button, sir,” he said and let Roberts’ alarm then fury race after his searching fingers. Roberts turned his back on him and faced Pollock.

  “Who’s he? Never mind, not important.” Roberts knew well enough who this member of the Jacobstein family was. The Jacobstein family owned Jacobstein’s American Emporium, located a few hundred yards along Great Eastern Road from where they now stood. It was the largest department store in the district and stocked only articles of quality. Pollock answered after a fashion.

  “You, Mr Roberts, or any one of us for that matter, never know when a policeman will be reading us our statutory rights. Having b
een insulted previously by that same person only makes the policeman grin while doing so, sir. Just an observation. Besides, when we arrest the person who killed the lady whose case we are now investigating, I’ll do the honours myself. There’s something deeply vile and disturbing about a man taking advantage of a woman.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” But Pollock interrupted abruptly.

  “Which is probably just as well, only we like to prove every aspect of our case, not just to take a man’s word for it. Now what we have is your yard, your coal, and a mutilated body somewhere beneath it all. I’d simmer down, Mr Roberts, if I were you. We’re the police, CID, and it’s our job to ask questions of everybody when, as in this instance, a crime has definitely been committed. Here or at the police station. Your choice.”

  “I’ve never been inside a police station in my life.”

  “Lucky you, Mr Roberts.”

  “I’ll report you! I don’t need to take insolence from a mere public servant.”

  “Please yourself, sir, but I can assure you being reported is an everyday occurrence,” Pollock said shrugging his shoulders, “water off a duck’s back. It’s hard to find and keep policemen, Mr Roberts, for the only difference between us and miners is that we get to keep our hands clean – well, most of the time. But they can earn more than we do. You being an ex-miner will or should be well-aware of that. The life-threatening aspect is roughly the same. Have you read the latest police statistics? No? I’ll have a copy sent to you.”

  “Strange as it may seem, Mr Policeman, I don’t give a damn about those statistics. I’m only interested in my own business and its books.”

  “These books, now,” drawled Pollock, “do they have a column headed ‘Murdered on Premises’? No? Better make one then.” Pollock pointed to one of the chairs by the table, but Roberts shook his head.

  “No point. I know nothing of all of this and I’m anxious to have a word with my night-watchman.”

  “Not in the near future you won’t for when he sobers up, he’ll find himself at Camlachie police station waiting in the ‘Yet to be Totally Interviewed’ queue. A bit like a column. Sergeant Jacobstein, feel free.” Jacobstein took over. But Roberts jumped in fast.

  “I’ll answer your questions,” he said, “not some jumped up PC’s.”

  “You’ll answer whoever asks them on behalf of the police, Mr Roberts,” said Pollock, his face totally expressionless.

  “That’s what you think. A bit of pressure on you and you’ll.”

  “Stop right there. I’m sorry, sir, but as I don’t know exactly what, if anything, you know about me, I’ll take a minute to let you know who you’re talking to. Saves a lot of misunderstanding, sir. I spent twelve years between the West Indies and India with the army. I’ve seen more men and their women and children die in the ugliest of circumstances from battle wounds, disease and a simple lack of drinking water than you’ve had hot diners. The pressure our men and their families are under out there is unimaginable to folk like you who think being made bankrupt is the worst that can happen to them. Surviving is what life is all about not living, so don’t think any loud-mouthed threat means anything to me. Now answer all of Sergeant Jacobstein’s questions and then shut up until I say different.”

  “You’ll regret this.”

  “If they don’t hang you, I probably will. Now sit down and get on with it.” Ben Pollock leaned against the Belfast sink and watched Roberts’ reactions to his sergeant’s questions. Roberts had been playing around with his girlfriend and Pollock knew it. But he also knew the man’s kind. Money counted, not people, and if Pollock could introduce even a small hint of discomfort, he would. Jacobstein came from a very good family and was more inclined to see the best in others – but not this time.

  “We’re interested in the movements of people who are known to have been working on or even just in the premises of WM Roberts and Son this evening. Mr Thomas MacNamee is already at the local police office awaiting Inspector Pollock as is your watchman, Mr Harry Costello. You are the only other person who has been named as being there legitimately this evening. So, Mr Roberts, when did you arrive and when did you leave? Please bear in mind we will be asking interested parties for confirmation or otherwise of your statement.” Pollock’s mouth creased very slightly. The big boss relying on the night watchman. Maybe there actually were worst things than bankruptcy in Roberts’ life.

  “Who says I was at the office?” asked the coal-merchant beligerently.

  “Your wife.” Roberts shrugged nonchalantly.

  “She’s just got it mixed up. I was at an informal business meeting elsewhere.”

  “Your son, Mr Adrian Roberts, aged twenty-five, overheard you say that.” Silence prevailed. Jacobstein looked straight at Roberts, pen poised over his notebook. The man seated before him finally got his story right in his head to his own satisfaction.

  “I changed my mind, that’s all. An informal business meeting at The Ardhu Hotel over a few drinks. That’s how successful businessmen work.”

  “And the lady’s name? Room 243, wasn’t it? Back stairs used on occasion?” Jacobstein gave Roberts the benefit of his most ‘Aye right!’ look as he waited to record his answer in his own notebook for posterity. That security man’s observations were certainly coming in handy. Roberts’ face was suffused with fury.

  “It was all above board. The lady was Miss Malone, Miss Euphemia Malone, my secretary.”

  “Well, that would appear to be quite satisfactory, sir, for we’ve been told that that bedroom is used frequently by you for these meetings. Now, you will realise that we would also like to interview not only Miss Malone but also the businessmen present as this is a homicide case and we must be left in no doubt as to the veracity of statements included in the file we eventually pass on to the Procurator Fiscal. Names, please?” Roberts suddenly made for the door.

  “My solicitor will be in touch.”

  “Look forward to hearing from him, Mr Roberts,” said Pollock holding the kitchen door open for him. “Mind how you go!” he called closing the door and he and Joe Jacobstein laughed loud and long. “Got that information about the stairs where, Joe?”

  “DC Flett who got it from just about everybody who works in The Ardhu. No man is an island.”

  “Then let’s get back to the office and see Tommy MacNamee. Our primary aim right now is to identify the body. That bastard Roberts can stew. Let’s see if it is Lena Dolan and who she really was.”

  Chapter 3

  DC Flett followed Pollock and Jacobstein into the CID office of Camlachie police station. Jacobstein reached for the teapot, Flett the mugs and Pollock the tin of biscuits. The CID, when in that area, moved like a well-oiled machine. The tea was stewed but it made no difference. It was hot, a shilling a week each to the turnkey while they used that office, and that kept the tea on the go. Money well spent. Pollock looked at the blank sheet of paper before him, took another mouthful of tea, and then looked up at the two detectives sitting opposite him on the other side of the desk.

  “One murder, one blank sheet of paper, so let’s fill it in. Name of deceased?”

  “Don’t know for certain but possibly, maybe even probably, Lena Dolan,” said Jocobstein as his boss wrote on the paper.

  “Noel?” Pollock asked Flett without looking up.

  “Tommy MacNamee is certain it’s her, sir. He knows her well from his days in the pie factory before he got the heave for making free with the end product. There’s a big demand for steak and kidney pies hereabouts.”

  “And how did he know our victim well?”

  “She served midweek evenings sometimes behind the bar in The Goose Dubs just off Fielden Street. Seems she was responsible for stacking the landlord’s sideline pie-stall at the market just off The Trongate on a Saturday. Tommy says she was something of an entrepreneur – God knows where he got that word from.”

  “Probably from his last encounter with the Procurator Fiscal, Noel,” said Pollock,
hoping he had spelled the word correctly. Spelling was not his strong point. “Any ideas doing the rounds as to why she was killed? Any words spoken by the bystanders?” he asked hopefully.

  “One thing that came out loud and clear was that she was not, and never had been, a prostitute. She was a respectable, married woman, worked in The Dalmarnock Weaving Factory and then went home to her equally respectable husband.”

  “Not tonight she didn’t,” said Jacobstein sourly.

  “And,” said Pollock, “that’s our puzzle. Why not? Did she go to that coal-yard of her own free will or was she taken there? And when?” Pollock sighed and laid down his pen. “At the moment, this is all the gospel according to Tommy MacNamee, that well-known reprobate and bookie’s runner. What we know for certain is that we have an unknown female body on our hands who has been strangled and stoned. What’s Lena Dolan’s address?” Pollock hoped to God it was near at hand for the only way to get anywhere that evening was on foot.

  “Coalhill Street, No 17. The attic up the pawnshop close.” Flett suppressed a grin.

  “Three up,” said Jacobstein dejectedly, but Pollock did not know why for Jake Jacobstein was the fittest of the three of them. But it was always the case. “Every crime suspect always lives three up.”

  “Or more in this case,” said Pollock. “Don’t forget the attic. Pass the biscuits, Jake. There’s no point in haring off to where Lena Dolan lives unless we know it’s her.”

  “MacNamee’s pretty certain, Ben, and he says he knows her well.”

  “Is that pie shop still open?” Pollock asked, the biscuit having reminded him that he had not eaten since breakfast.” Noel Flett nodded and waited hopefully. Maybe a little persuasion was necessary.

  “Began to shut when the last customer I saw called thirty minutes ago. But with the pubs still open, there will still be a lot of stragglers to come.” Pollock and Jacobstein brightened immediately.

  “Send out for the usual, Noel, and some toasted bagels for Jake. Cheese filling?” Jacobstein nodded. “And for God’s sake, get somebody to make us some fresh tea when the food arrives. Right now, we wait and think.” The door closed as Noel Flett left on his errand of mercy.