DEATH WATCH

by Marie Rowan

  “An unusual method of killing,” said Jake quietly.

  “Now what would you know about that given that the envelopes containing the post-mortem reports is lying here unopened? Strangulation is not unusual and the coal layer was caused by the killer making a half-hearted attempt to hide the body for a short time. Succeeded in the first, failed in the second. There’s nothing to say the perpetrator is an East End resident. Facts are facts.” Bell looked super-smug this time.

  “I take it, sir, that you’ve been given access to these reports. If so, we both know that that is also against regulations as you’re still off sick,” said Pollock.

  “Arrest me.” Pollock ignored him although he was sorely tempted. He signalled to Jacobstein and Flett.

  “I’ll bid you ‘Good Morning’, sir, and will see you on Monday,” he said quickly and left the room, Jacobstein and Flett following closely behind. “Let your Uncle Avram know that his staff-room is out of bounds for the next twenty minutes when we reach the Emporium. We’ll have our meeting there and Bell can go to hell and take his bloody reports with him.”

  Jacobstein’s Amerian Emporium was coming to life.

  “Don’t forget the wee Irish linen tray-cloths, Jake,” said Pollock as he took the stairs to the first-floor two at a time. Jacobstein veered off to let Uncle Avram know the score and to acquaint Miss Dolina McMurtrie that Inspector Pollock and Mrs Peterson of Coalhill Street each wanted an Irish linen tray-cloth of the small variety.

  “They only came in at 5.25pm yesterday. I’ll send the boy round to let her know.” Miss McMurtrie rang up 1/10d on the cash register and Pollock now owed his sergeant that amount.

  “Thanks, Miss McMurtrie, I’ll collect it when we leave here.”

  Within minutes, all three CID men were grouped round the staff-room table.

  “Let’s revise. But first may I congratulate both of you on your forbearance while Inspector Bell was sounding off? The main thing to realise is that his insults were not personal. Right now, he hates everybody. He also specialises in contempt.”

  “Insecurity,” said Jacobstein, “that’s what’s behind it.”

  “His or yours?” asked Pollock. “The fact is, Jake, he hasn’t got a complex, just lacks a sense of humour. When he’s barking like that, just remember he puts his drawers on one leg at a time like the rest of us. His philosophy in life is very simple, he’s right and everybody else is wrong. He is also a most obnoxious man these days, so we’ll knuckle down, solve this murder and the Owen Farrell case whatever it turns out to be, and bugger-off before breakfast tomorrow. Might even manage to get to the game today, but I doubt it as it’s a 2.15 pm kick-off. All he’ll find when he enters that office on Monday will be the distinct smell of curry. So, Jake, go first and site the state of play. This is our own Cup Final. We’ll read the pos-mortem reports once Bell has exited the office. There’s no way he’ll take them with him. In other words, Noel, once we’re finished here, nip round to the police station and fetch it once he’s departed the scene. It’s all yours, Jake.”

  “The body of a young woman was found at the foot of the coal-righ in Roberts’ coal-yard by the inestimable Tommy MacNamee. The girl had been strangled and the body was under a fair amount of coal. She was later identified as Meg Hughes by her uncle whose family she once lived with in Yate Street. The coal-yard watchman was dead to the world through drink. Exactly when he passed out, is hard to say at the moment. The deceased was last seen walking along Great Eastern Road by Tommy MacNamee and she was accompanied by Calum Dolan. Those are just the bare facts, Ben,” said Jacobstein closing his notebook.

  “Quite so.”

  “The main character for a while was Lena Dolan, the victim’s cousin, and first thought to be the murdered girl. It was dense fog, as thick as mince. We now know that the fact that she was wearing Lena Dolan’s shawl gave way to the false identification.”

  “And that’s about it. Thanks, Jake. Anything to add, Noel?”

  “Nothing substantial. My auntie works in the same factory as Meg Hughes. As you can imagine, Owen Farrell’s body being fished out of the Clyde spread like wildfire as he’s well-known in the area and is a supervisor in the same factory as Meg Hughes worked in. What’s not known is that he was sacked. My auntie, who works in the wages department, was told on Tuesday to make up all monies due to him as he’d got his books. All confidential. Farrell has evidently told his mates he was off sick.”

  “Does Auntie Bessie know why he got the sack, confidentially of course?” asked a very interested Pollock, all thoughts of Inspector Bell firmly on the back burner.

  “She thinks he was helping himself to the merchandise, but that’s only a guess.”

  “Maybe you should pay that factory a visit, Noel,” Pollock suggested.

  “Seems he was making free with the girls, too.”

  “A busy man. Should have taken time out to learn to swim,” commented Jacobstein cynically.

  “Maybe the Clyde, a girl and a damp, foggy night in Glasgow was that particular lothario’s idea of the pools of Ein Gedi, the beautiful Bathsheba and a moonlit Judean evening.” Pollock smiled at the thought. “Having been on the menu for several dozen water-rats has definitely not left him looking like Kind David. I wonder if those pm reports are in the Clyde, too, by now? Bell’s definitely acting out of character these days. Has JAE got another message-boy, Jake? I take it the one we saw last night has outgrown his bike?” Jacobstein nodded.

  “One who goes under the name of Mackinfauld Cholmondley,” said the sergeant with a straight face.

  “Otherwise known as?” asked Pollock in astonishment.

  “Mackinfauld Cholmondley, much to his annoyance, but his folks call him Boab.”

  “Right, well, see that he’s sent round to the police office with a note asking that we be informed when a certain police officer has left.” Jake left and Flett brewed some tea. The tea was enjoyed by the two left in the office in silence until Jacobstein returned.

  “On the surface of it, we don’t really know much. But a lot of questions need to be answered and that information from your auntie, Noel, is extremely interesting. One person who might be able to give us a clue or two is Lena Dolan. She was close to her cousin, it seems. I’ve more than a few other questions I’d like to ask her about Meg Hughes.”

  “And maybe Meg Hughes and Owen Farrell?” Flett suggested.

  “Murder then suicide? Could be,” said Pollock. “Was he the suicidal type? That we’ll make a point of finding out. But first, Noel, take a constable, uniformed, with you to the factory and ask a few pertinent questions about Farrell. Pick up all the gossip as well. The office workers are no less addicted to it than the shop floor girls. Ask about Meg Hughes, too. Jake and I will visit the home of the flying frying-pan and ask Lena to fill in Meg’s background, lives and loves. We’ll also make a point of seeing Calum Dolan if he’s around and not at his work. We’ll all meet here when we’re finished.” They tidied up the room and left, Flett for the Dalmarnock Weaving Factory in Cotton Street and Pollock and Jake for Coalhill Street.

  “This is ready for you, Mr Jacobstein,” a sweet voice called after them as they headed for the main door.

  “Your tray-cloth, Ben.” Pollock was over there like a shot. He intended going home after the curry to change his clothes and a little present always cheered Shameena up.

  “Many thanks, Miss eh?” he said smiling and hesitating.

  “Miss McMurtrie, Inspector Pollock,” said Jake. Pollock took the small parcel with thanks, turned to go and then a thought suddenly struck him.

  “Miss McMurtrie, I was wondering about a certain shawl I’ve seen recently and I’m wondering where I might find out which store stocks it”

  “I can only answer definitely for JAE but I could probably make an educated guess if it were a good one and yet not in our stock. We sell all makes and weights of them, Mr Pollock, so if you would describe it to the best of your ability, I might be able to help. It’s not my de
partment but I know the stock well enough as we all help out in different departments as required. When someone’s off sick, you understand.”

  “Do you? Good. Well, it has a broad Paisley pattern about six inches deep all round in green and red threads but the centre is just plain white. Does that help?”

  “Of course it does. The red and green colours are not very popular. Too outstanding. Our ladies prefer colours that are more muted, more discreet.”

  “So, no luck here,” asked Pollock disappointed.

  “On the contrary, Inspector Pollock, I sold one myself on Wednesday just before closing time. Yes, it was a sample and we did not place an order for more. The price was vastly reduced because it had obviously caught on something and the threads were badly pulled. Only on about four square inches on one corner but it rendered it unsaleable to anyone who could have wanted it at the original price.”

  “But you did sell it?” said Pollock. Miss McMurtrie nodded.

  “To a local girl. She was very taken with it so I reduced it to what I thought she could afford. It meant that we got money on an unwanted sample that was virtually worthless to us and the girl left feeling very happy with what she considered was a bargain.”

  “Thank you, you’ve been a great help.” Miss McMurtrie was not the only employee of JAE’s who had been helpful to the CID that morning for Mackinfauld Cholmondley had been extremely busy too. He had delivered Pollock’s parcel and note into the caring hands of the desk sergeant at Camlachie police station.

  The fog was still thick but less so than the previous evening. Daylight helped to dispel some of it and the two detectives made their way cautiously along Great Eastern Road and turned into Coalhill Street with its meandering population. There was no sign of John Gordon and Pollock hoped that meant he was tracking down his favourite herbs and spices. He glanced up as he came to Number 17 but the third floor plus attic were shrouded in a stinking, brown mist. A low-down window was thrown up but Jacobstein got his word in first.

  “They’re in Mrs Peterson, 1/10d and the best quality. The inspector here has just bought one for his wife.” Jake was wasted in the force, thought Pollock. Mrs Peterson was out of her house, out of the close and round the corner in double quick time.

  They mounted the stairs slowly, ignoring the resentful looks of the occupants and the unsavoury smells. Both men were lean and fit with Jacobstein a good three inches taller than the 5’ 11” of the inspector. Pollock’s pale, almost invisible grey eyes contrasted starkly with the glistening deep brown of his sergeant’s. Jacobstein rapped hard and fast on the door, looked straight at Pollock, down to his well-polished boots and then up again in time to say ‘Good Morning, Mr Dolan’ and shut the wee weasel up before he could get protesting.

  “We’d like a word with your wife, Mrs Lena Dolan,” said Pollock.

  “I know my own wife’s name!”

  “It’s a comfort to know you’re on the ball, sir, for it makes our job so much easier. Now, is your wife at home, sir.”

  “I’m here!” Lena Dolan emerged from the communal lavatory on the landing below.

  “A moment of your time, please, Mrs Dolan,” said Pollock with a charm he reserved only for tricky customers. Lena Dolan climbed the stairs rapidly, entered the attic and took one of only two chairs in the room.

  “This is a house of bereavement so make it brief and leave us to come to terms with our sorrow.” Rehearsed or not, there was deep grief behind the theatricality. Pollock ignored the word ‘brief’. His questioning would take as long as it took, he thought. Dolan took the other seat. They were in fact a handsome couple, Lena almost a beauty and Tim Dolan an extremely handsome man. He could have had the pick of the East End if he had kept his whingeing, squeaky voice to himself. What a disappointment that must have been to legions of young women. He wondered why Lena Adair had picked him. Pollock sat on the edge of the tiniest table he had ever seen in what passed for a kitchen cum parlour and Jacobstein was left with the sink. He settled for leaning against it.

  “Off work, Mr Dolan?” asked Pollock.

  “Part-time this week. Machinery knackered for a few days.” Jacobstein had quietly taken out his notebook and pencil.

  “Mrs Dolan, I wonder if you would help clear up a few points for me. We really must find out where Meg was yesterday, on Friday. We only know she was seen going eastwards on Great Eastern Road with your brother-in-law, Mr Calum Dolan, in the early evening.”

  “My brother had nothing to do with that murder or any other, I might add!” shouted Dolan jumping up out of his seat.” Pollock tried but failed to keep his contempt for the man out of his voice.

  “You can add till you’re blue in the face, Dolan, but the fact remains he was the last person we know who was in her company before she was found murdered.” Dolan went ashen, staggered a bit, then fell back into the chair. “Now you keep your mouth tight shut until I’ve finished asking your wife the questions I need answers to in order to move this investigation along.” Lena attempted to maintain an outraged wife look on her lovely, pale face but a creeping smile spoiled it somewhat.

  “I’ve no idea where she was or who she was with. You should work back from Calum,” she advised.

  “But she was wearing your shawl. When did you give it to her?” Long silence. “Mrs Dolan, you have a choice to make and you’d better make it right now for in one minute’s time, if you haven’t begun to answer my question, you’ll be on your way to Camlachie police station and there you won’t have any choice in the matter. We’ll keep you there as long as we need to, so you’d better have a good lawyer.” Lena Dolan shrugged carelessly. “Get your coat, Mrs Dolan.” Pollock nodded to Jacobstein and the sergeant put away his notebook and stood by the outside door. Dolan himself had his thoughts elsewhere.

  “Calum’s a great boy,” was all he managed, though. Lena Dolan walked across to the sink and filled a cup with water.

  “Drink this.” Her husband obeyed her automatically then his wife began to speak again, this time to Pollock. “I last spoke to Meg on Thursday evening in the Calton. It was in 6 Spring Street, straight along Great Eastern Road from the foot of this street. She’s got a tiny flat there.” Both detectives wondered exactly how small a flat could get if the occupant of that attic thought it small. “When she saw the shawl, she asked if she could borrow it. Said she had a special date on Friday but wouldn’t tell me who with.”

  “Why did she stop living with your family in Yate Street, Mrs Dolan?” asked Pollock.

  “Joe, my brother Joe, is – was – dead set on marrying her, but Meg was having none of it, so she moved out a little while back. Nobody thought it was for good. She took the flat and could only just afford the rent so no money for buying shawls. That was the last time I saw her. I was working all day Friday, stopped at six. Nothing sinister in that, is there?” Pollock ignored her cheek.

  “And then?”

  “It’s Meg’s movements you’re entitled to enquire into, Mr Policeman, not mine.”

  “I am if I think you might be involved.” Pollock changed tack suddenly. “Meg and Calum Dolan were walking towards this end of Great Eastern Road, away from her flat.”

  “Why away from the flat? Why the flat? They could just as well be moving away from anywhere you care to mention.”

  “Were they?”

  “No!” shouted Dolan, who seemed only to be capable of shouting. “Tell them, Lena, that Calum hated her – I mean, didnae like her much. Go on, tell him.”

  “The feeling was mutual.” Lena Dolan’s look of rage silenced her husband and he shrank even further back into his chair.

  “When Meg’s body was found, there was no bag beside or near the body, Mrs Dolan.” Pollock let that fact sink in. She had not asked about it the previous evening.

  “She seldom carried one.” Lena had an answer for everything.

  “That’s not a reasonable comment, Mrs Dolan, considering she was carefully dressed and wearing her new shawl.”

  “
I meant when she was at her work.”

  “But she wasn’t. Could you describe it for me, please? All of her bags if she owned more than one.”

  “She was fond of bags. She had three, not new by any manner of means, but originally, they must have been quality. She always bought them in Mary Govan’s Bazaar. It’s a second-hand shop in The Trongate. Glasgow Cross. Third or fourth-hand more likely. Still, the bags suited Meg. She was very choosey. She only kept a handkerchief, a few coppers, a tiny notebook and a pencil in them. God alone knows why.”

  “A diary?” asked Jacobstien scribbling away. Lena Dolan scowled at his bent head.

  “For recording what she did at work? Why should she want to make a note of total boredom?” Jacobstein very wisely did not look up and thus missed the most scathing look he was ever likely to have directed at him.

  “So,” resumed Pollock, “if Meg or Calum Dolan had come here last night, they would have found your home empty. Am I right?” Both Dolans nodded. “I’ll have a word with your brother, Mr Dolan, just to clarify matters. His address, please.”

  “Society Street, number 3.”

  “Thank you.” Jacobstein made a note of it. “And exactly where does your brother work, Mr Dolan?”

  “The docks, The Broomielaw. I don’t know exactly what he does but he’s a humpher sometimes.”

  “Is your brother married? Family?”

  “Married, no, family, aye. But he lives on his own – sometimes.”

  “I’ll have a word with him. Now Mrs Dolan, have you any idea at all of your cousin’s plans for that evening?”

  “None.” Short and sweet.

  “Past-times? Friends?”

  “Friends? Nobody in particular except me. Partying, she liked parties; you know the kind, in other folks’ houses. She liked to sing, liked an audience.” Pollock thought that living with a lot of mouthy cousins plus an uncle and aunt might have been audience enough for most folk.