DEATH WATCH

by Marie Rowan

  “All right. Thanks for your co-operation,” he said, signalled to Jacobstein and both left as the door was slammed shut behind them.

  “I’d give tonight’s curry to find out what that woman was up to last night, Ben.”

  “Same here but we’ll never know if we’re relying on her,” said his boss as they walked slowly and thoughtfully down the dangerous steps and into the close mouth.

  “Where to next, Ben? Calum Dolan’s?”

  “If he’s not gone to The Broomielaw.”

  “Or just to ground,” suggested Jacobstein. Pollock smiled suddenly as Mrs Peterson came out of her ground-floor flat with several infants clinging to her linen skirt.

  “Did you get your tray-cloth, Mrs Peterson,” he asked brightly while narrowly avoiding a kick aimed at his shin from a mumpy infant. The child was quickly yanked away by his mother and forced back into the lobby of the flat.

  “Yes, I did get it, Inspector Pollock, thank you. Now, I don’t want to know anybody else’s business, but I expect you do, you being the polis.”

  “That’s very true, Mrs Peterson, I can’t deny it,” said Pollock smiling and Jacobstein grinning.

  “Well, that lassie who got murdered just down off Great Eastern Road is no doubt the person you’re most interested in. Now I worked with Meg Hughes before I married Mr Peterson. She was just out of the school and a very nice girl she was. But I’ve seen her a few times lately talking to somebody she should have avoided like the plague, should have given him a wide berth. Just talking, mind you, maybe passing the time of day.” Mrs Peterson frowned as she thought of that and then continued. “I saw her again with him and her cousin, her in the attic, Lena Adair as was. This time, though, I’m sorry to say, it looked like they were up to something. A very heated argument as my man would say. He’s very keen on books from the library near Bridgeton Cross.” Pollock and Jacobstein were having difficulty containing their excitement but knew better that to sidetrack the lady.

  “Who was the man?” asked Pollock quietly.

  “The one they’ve just fished out of the Clyde, Owen Farrell. No loss to anybody. Then again, maybe his wife thinks otherwise as Peterson himself would say.” Jake resisted the strong temptation to risk putting Mrs Peterson off by taking it all down as she spoke.

  “And when did this happen, Mrs Peterson?” asked Pollock.

  “Thursday morning. I was coming back from the steamie hurling the pram with the wet clothes in it and decided to cut through one of the back courts that would take me just short of Mr Seaton’s’s bakery. You know the one? The ‘Dough Frae Me’?” Both detectives nodded. “Thought I’d get a loaf and some jam turnovers for a wee treat for the family. Off to my left, just inside one of the closes, I caught sight of the three of them, those three I mentioned, all in a huddle and dividing something up between them. Suddenly, Lena Adair and Meg began to ladle into each other, tearing at each other they were but never a sound did they make.”

  “What was Farrell doing?”

  “Nothing. He just suddenly vanished and I hurried the pram away at breakneck speed as Mr Peterson would say. And that, Mr Pollock, Mr Jacobstein, was that. Hope that helps.” Jacobstein had run quickly back up the stairs to watch in case Lena Dolan or her husband were about. Pollock could not believe his luck.

  “Thank you, Mrs Peterson, you’ve been a great help. This, of course, is strictly between the three of us. You’ll hear no more about it from us.”

  He whistled softly and Jacobstein reappeared as Mrs Peterson hurried back indoors.

  “I checked the lavatory. There’s no lock on that door. All clear.”

  “So, two cases might be one after all, Jake. Farrell, Meg and Lena.”

  “But now there is only one,” said Jake.

  “I think we’d better track down Calum, the humpher, Sergeant Jacobstein, as fast as possible.”

  Chapter 5

  A few minutes’ walk had taken Pollock and Jacobstein along Great Eastern Road to Society Street but they learned nothing there, for Calum Dolan had not been home the previous evening. His next-door neighbour had then been forced to borrow sixpence for some bacon rashers from the woman downstairs. That neighbour expected the same number returned the next day, Dolan would simply have written the debt off.

  “Bell will be sitting loving this with his spies prying everywhere.”

  “Toadying swine, that they are. Wonder how he knew?”

  “Doctor McPherson, Jake. They’re both natives of Alloa, at school together, thick as thieves.”

  “I heard he’s been mooching about HQ for the past few weeks.”

  “Do you know something, Jake? Bell used to be my hero. Work was like food and drink to him. He loved the job. Changed, though, over a year ago.”

  “I know, heard you were his golden boy. Seems he took his wife’s death very hard.” Pollock’s mind was back in the past.

  “He drove himself relentlessly after that, work, work, and more work. His whole character changed. Bell was always a kind man, very considerate. He took no nonsense but kind, understanding and humble despite his success.”

  “Any family?”

  “Children?” Pollock shook his head. “None that survived the first few weeks. Didn’t seem to matter, though, too tied up with his wife. Nothing was too good for her.”

  “Still hell for us, though, these days.”

  “Aye, it is. He’s still driven but God knows what drives him now. He’ll no doubt turn up after they sign him off this morning.”

  “He’s got no right. If they follow the usual procedure, it’ll be Monday before before he signs on again,” said Jake hoping for the best.

  “We’ll work on the assumption it’s imminent, even though it’s Saturday, for he’s got pull. Anyway, our problem right now isn’t Inspector Edward Bell but occasional humpher, Calum Dolan, who’s done a disappearing act. And no, Jake, he isn’t dead for I won’t allow that.” Jacobstein laughed.

  “So, where is he?”

  “Let’s start with his favourite drinking establishment.”

  “The Weaver’s Maiden?”

  “Just so. They’ll be open for deliveries and the like. Now the proprietor is Angus Burr, a man famous for his exploits on the football pitch if he’s the one I’m thinking of.”

  “No interest in today’s game then, I take it?”

  “Wrong colours, I suppose. But as Calum’s a big fan of his team, he might just be able to give us information as regards to his whereabouts last night.” The CID men pushed open the door and entered.

  “Deliveries only! Out!” a voice bellowed.

  “I don’t think so,” said Pollock quietly as both detectives showed their warrant cards. “Mr Burr, I presume.” As the man was the best dressed by far of the three pub men present, it was a reasonable guess.

  “Nope! That’s me, he’s Rab.” said a smiling face emerging above the counter. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” His employees made themselves scarce.

  “Just some information regarding one of your most devoted customers, sir,” said Jacobstein.

  “This is a very popular drinking hole, Sergeant Jacobstein,” said Burr looking from the sergeant to the inspector with a great deal of satisfaction. “Some of the patrons of rival pubs in the area call it The Weaver’s Midden but only out of jealousy. As you can see, I run a scrupulously clean and well-appointed shop here. I value my customers, some don’t.”

  “I can see that, Mr Burr,” said Pollock impressed, “and it’s to your credit. But I think it’s probably your barman I want a word with.”

  “Rab!” For a slightly built man, average height, and with a soft, speaking voice, Burr’s bellow could have split rock.

  “Aye, Mr Burr, sir, what’s up?” Rab had shed his brown, supervising apron for a white one that dazzled Pollock’s eyes.

  “The Inspector here, Detective Inspector Pollock, wants a word with you. I’ll be in the office if required.” Pollock smiled his thanks, Rab looked uneasy.

&n
bsp; “There’s nothing to worry about, sir. We’re here in the hope that you’ll help us to locate a Mr Calum Dolan.”

  “Right. He’s in the jail.”

  “The jail?” queried Jacobstein amazed although later, he could not understand why.

  “Well, at least I’m told that the two of them are in the cells in Camlachie polis office, to be exact. Or they were first thing this morning. The City jail’s full up because of the animosity building up concerning the Cup Final.” Jacobstein was first to recover.

  “Why? I mean on what charge?” he asked.

  “Breach of the Peace. There was an almighty brawl in here last night. Infiltrators as Peterson would say if he drank in here which he doesn’t. Tee- total. The Band of Hope. That new wooden door over there was almost a glass one, half and half, last night. Mr Burr’s brother’s in the joinery trade – priority. Anyway, Calum Dolan kicked the whole business off by betting anybody who’d take him on that Celtic would win on Saturday. This is not a Celtic pub. But loyalties don’t count when money’s involved, common-sense does, said Dolan. Showing a distinct lack of the latter, he backed up this statement with a few injudicious words, realised some present were from their footballing rivals and poleaxed one of them. Loyalty to the bold Calum then came to the fore and this small part of Camlachie and environs was the latest near-murder scene. Ten casualties to the Royal Infirmary, two in the cells and sundry injured to their beds. Mr Burr’s hoping to get off with a mild warning because his father-in-law’s a baillie.”

  “And Dolan’s injuries?”

  “None. He’s very quick on his feet.”

  “What time did he come in here, do you remember?”

  “The place was packed so I couldn’t say exactly, but quite early on. Seven, I think, or just after for he came in at the same time as a few tram drivers and that’s their usual time. They’ll be able to say if it was their normal time.”

  “Any difference in his manner?”

  “No. If there had been, we would still have a glass door.” Pollock smiled.

  “Well, thank you for your help, sir. We’ll have a word with Mr Dolan himself.” Pollock and Jake left the pub.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes.

  “Calum Dolan doesn’t strike me as being a master criminal, Ben. A perpetual loser, maybe, but.” Jacobstein’s voice tailed off.

  “And a contented one?”

  “Absolutely. At least we now think he’s out of it after 7pm.” Pollock agreed.

  “We’ll see if he knows what Meg was planning for the evening.”

  “If he went straight into The Weaver’s Maiden after his shouting banter with the Celtic supporters of The Clay Pipe when he reached Coalhill Street and can prove it, he’s out of the equation. By the time we’ve finished interviewing him, Noel should be back from the Dalmarnock Weaving Factory in Cotton Street, hopefully with a few facts on Meg Hughes and Owen Farrell.” Both men walked quickly along Great Eastern Street and into Camlachie police station.

  The chill followed them in. The fog was still in charge and Pollock hoped that Flett had got the fire going in his office if he had arrived before them. He had. Dolan was brought along to the interview room and Pollock hoped that he could provide something to kick-start the investigation.

  “Not guilty, that’s what I am, not guilty!”

  “Shut up!” Calum Dolan took one look at Pollock’s sour face and shut up.

  “Right now, sit down there and keep that big mouth of yours in check until I finish talking.” Dolan’s perpetual look of amazement took over as he quietened down.

  “I wisnae daein’ nothin’.” Pollock turned to his sergeant.

  “Sergeant Jacobstein, please get the desk sergeant in here. This person is now facing further charges of obstructing Her Majesty’s police officers in their legitimate duties.” Jacobstein nodded solemnly and made to rise. Dolan signalled that his big mouth was not quite tight shut. “All right then, Mr Dolan. But I warn you that another unsolicited word from you and your humphing days are over for three months at least.” Jacobstein resumed his seat and produced his notebook as Pollock undertook the questioning. “Where did you get the money to buy four pineapple tarts and two soda bread loaves?” Jacobstein failed to keep a grin from his face but he bent his head deep over the notebook and got away with it.” Dolan looked incredulously at Pollock but decided that answering idiotic questions like that was the best road to go down under the circumstances.

  “I found two separate shillings, nice and shiny ones they were, by the tram stop outside the bike shop. Thought I’d treat the wife and the weans. They’ve not been too good lately.”

  “Wife, did you say?”

  “Well, she’s near enough the wife and it’s been that cold these past few days.”

  “Sergeant Jacobstein, make a note of this beside Mr Dolan’s name. ‘Father of the Year’ award nominated by us. If there’s a ‘Near-Enough’ section for husbands, put him in for that as well. Now, with this windfall, what did you buy Meg Hughes the other evening just before she was murdered?” Dolan’s face lost all of its high colour.

  “Nothing,” he whispered with fright, “why should I?”

  “Now that’s the real question I’d like answered, Mr Dolan”, said Pollock equally quietly. “What was going on between you two?”

  “Nothing. Are you saying I murdered her?” Dolan’s voice was now making the walls reverberate. “Nothing!” he shouted again. “Why would I kill anybody?”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “I might be daft, Mr Pollock, but I’m definitely not stupid. I go about my daily business without causing any trouble.”

  “You’re in here for a Breach of the Peace, Mr Dolan,” said Jacobstein flatly. Dolan turned to him, hands flat up and arms outstretched.

  “I’ll give you that, Mr Jacobstein, but murder? A girl? I’ve known Meg for years in a way – as Lena’s cousin. But that’s it. I’ll admit there was a time but, well, that was way before I met my sort of wife. Meg was a friend, a good friend, but that was all.”

  “Who decided that?”

  “Well, Meg did, in a nice kind of way for that’s what she was like.”

  “So why were you with her on Wednesday evening?”

  “No mystery there, sir. A pal of mine is the janitor in the school in East Hope Street and I’d called in with a couple of mutton pies for our tea. His wife’s in The Royal with rheumatic fever. We’ve been having pies in his wee office for the past week. I don’t actually live with my own, em, wife a lot of the time. I’d just left the school, the fog, hard to see, crossed over into Great Eastern Road when I realised Meg Hughes had crossed over with me and appeared beside me – for company, like she said. She didn’t say where she was going and I didn’t ask. Nosey’s not my middle name.”

  “So, what did you two talk about?” asked Pollock sharply.

  “She said nothing and I just said I liked her shawl. Actually, I always give a woman a wee compliment. Harmless and they know it but it makes them smile or sometimes they just laugh out loud.”

  “And when the two of you parted company, where did it happen and who went where?”

  “We parted company just as we came level with The Clay Pipe on the opposite side of the road. Some of the regulars shouted over to me – we don’t support the same team, you know. Anyway, I took some stick about having no interest in The Cup Final on Saturday between Celtic and Clyde. I shouted back a few things. Least said about that the better for a lot was yelled at me in Irish Gaelic but I certainly got their drift. No malice, though. Danny O’Rourke’s, another Celtic pub, was almost beside me so I was on a hiding to nothing if I let it get to me. I turned to Meg to apologise for the bad language and she wasn’t there. Had vanished into the fog. I thought she’d just gone on to wherever she was going – to my brother’s, I imagined, and then I went on to The Weaver’s Maiden. That’s my local. And that, Mr Pollock, is that.”

  “Is it?” asked the inspector, “you expect me to
believe that a chirpy wee lassie was in the company of an old pal all the way along Great Eastern Road and she said absolutely nothing at all? Unlike you, Dolan, I neither look daft nor stupid or even just glaikit and I am in fact, right now, extremely suspicious of your account of your meeting with a girl shortly before some bastard hacked her to death. You’re in the frame for this, Dolan, whether you like it or not, until you come up with a more convincing in-depth account of that meeting.”

  “She only said that she should really put her shawl over her hair as she’d taken a lot of trouble with it and didn’t want it dampened by the fog.”

  “Did she adjust her shawl?”

  “No,” answered Dolan.

  “And before she joined you, when had you last seen her?”

  “Tuesday,” said Dolan having given it some thought, “talking to Owen Farrell outside the library in Landressy Street. A great reader – her, no’ him.”

  “And Mr Farrell is a friend of the Dolan family, is he?” Calum Dolan’s face now lost whatever colour it had managed to regain, drained of life it now seemed.

  “No, well, he’s no friend of mine. I mean to say, he’s no particular friend of mine. I can’t answer for Tim or Lena.”

  “And we wouldn’t expect you to, Mr Dolan,” said Pollock smiling at him. Dolan knew something was coming but was beginning to panic at not knowing what. He soon found out. “So then, answering for yourself alone, what exactly did you pass on to Owen Farrell?” That even took Jacobstein by surprise.

  “Eh?” Dolan jumped up but Jacobstein pushed him firmly back onto the chair.

  “From the docks. A wee present from China, maybe? Hong Kong? That’s the berth the McDonald Line use, isn’t it? And you use it, too, Mr Dolan, not only for work but for play, in a manner of speaking, don’t you?” Dolan was sweating profusely but Pollock just sat back and waited.

  “I was told that it was silk,” breathed Dolan at last.

  “A bit heavy for silk,” Pollock suggested.

  “Maybe,” Dolan answered after a while and some deep thought. “But it was just a big parcel, the size of a big box of chocolates you see in the big stores in Sauchiehall Street and know you’ll never be able to afford to give to your loved ones. Big, flat ones, about two feet square, one layer, with roses and things printed on the lid.”