by Marie Rowan
“A quarter pound of chocolate gingers is better for their health, Mr Dolan. That size is simply catering to greed. Now about the parcels you received at the docks.”
“I just passed them to Farrell whenever one came in and he sent it on to London, or so I was told by another humpher. I forget his name,“ he added hurriedly. “In fact, I don’t think I ever heard it.” Jacobstein was writing very quickly.
“And you made your fortune.”
“Do I look as if I did? A pound or two but every single one counts when you’ve a family to feed. Not that they’re actually my family – the wife and the weans - but I sort of think they are.”
“Did Farrell make his fortune, do you think?” Dolan shrugged.
“Maybe, I don’t know. All he wanted was a bank book he could look at all night. Never spent a penny that he didn’t have to. His family live like paupers.”
“And how was it the late Mr Farrell came to pick you, Mr Dolan? He must surely have realised that if you were picked up by us you would definitely not die for a cause that paid peanuts, and also, there are surely a lot of other men there who would have been a safer bet for the price of just an additional pound or two.” By this time, Dolan was feeling too miserable to take this piece of plain speaking for an insult.
“As kids round here, we always used to like to get down to the water, the Clyde, you know. He was a few years older than me but I once fished him out of the river. He could hardly swim at all and his pals were farther out in the river. Farrell was a total louse with a long memory for deeds done to him, good or evil. This was his way of putting a few extra shillings in my pocket.”
“How kind,” said Pollock sarcastically nodding over to his sergeant who nodded back his complete agreement. Dolan was indeed a silly man but not much more, Jacobstein thought.
“Right, now,” said Pollock, “as you’ve been very helpful as regards Meg Hughes, all charges against you will be dropped and your exploits at the docks, as they are not able to be substantiated by the police right now as the other man involved is now dead, will be put on hold. We will be informing our colleagues responsible for that area of our concern that drugs are being
brought ashore but no names will be mentioned. You’re free to go.” Jacobstein rose and opened the door, signalling Dolan’s release. Dolan was away like a bat out of hell.
The two detectives breathed a sigh of relief. At least something had come out of it.
“What in the name of God put you onto that, Ben?”
“Four pineapple tarts and two soda bread loaves. Found two bob at the tram-stop? That money would have been snapped up before it would have hit the pavement by the guys who doss down of a night in the entrance to that ironmonger’s if the coins ever existed at all. Dolan’s got sense enough to know we could easily find somebody who’d seen the two of them talking together if that were the case. Still, let’s square it all with the sergeant and see if Noel’s back yet.”
Noel Flett eyed the dancing flames of the fire with satisfaction. He spooned out the soup as soon as he heard the footsteps coming up the stairs and placed the bread and butter on the plates on top of the cleared desk. The tea sat smugly by the fire. Pollock and Jacobstein stepped into a home from home. Jacobstein buttered the bread and Pollock poured the tea. This CID team worked together like a well-oiled machine. Pollock finally slumped into his chair and his sergeant muttered his usual blessing under his breath.
“To save time, men, I’ll read out the post mortem report as we eat.” He proceeded to do that between gulps of soup and it told them basically nothing they didn’t already know and introduced them to medical jargon they did not understand. “To bring you up to date so far, Noel, minus any great detail, here’s the state of play. The Meg Hughes case and Farrell’s are intertwined somehow but I’m not exactly sure in what way. According to this report, he simply drowned. You may read it for yourself at your leisure. You, too, Jake. To run through this morning’s business first, Calum Dolan is out of the running. He knows nothing, his own words, only that Meg was concerned about the fog ruining her hair. That seems to imply that she wanted to look her best for someone.”
“Must have been serious or she wouldn’t have gone out in the dark with the fog being so bad,” Jacobstein put in. Pollock and Flett both laughed.
“There speaks the voice of experience,” said Pollock. “Dolan also said he saw her talking to Farrell on Tuesday. Could mean something or nothing. He was involved in a bit of drug importing at The Broomielaw but that’s not important to us and we’ll pass the details onto the lads down there. What did come out of the questioning, though, was that Farrell was resetting. He’s dead now so that will probably die with him. But one of Lena Dolan’s neighbours, a Mrs Peterson, saw Meg, Lena and Farrell having a barney in a back close very early one morning as she was coming back from the steamie. And that is about it except that wee Irish linen tray-cloths are now back in stock again in Jacobstein’s American Emporium. That’s mine all wrapped up in a brown paper bag and sitting on the desk. They are very classy and popular hereabouts with discerning households like mine. By the way, Sergeant Jacobstein, that very pretty Miss McMurtrie has a notion for you.”
“Don’t they all,” said the sergeant trying not to sound too flattered.
“What kind of soup is this, Noel?” asked Pollock. “It’s almost good.”
“Thanks, sir,” said Flett proudly for he knew his boss had very high standards in soup. “It’s chicken broth. Yours is lentil, Jake.”
“From Dough Frae Me?”
“Aye.”
“Then it’s a pity this isn’t our actual HQ. Right now, back to business. Your turn, Noel,” said Pollock refilling everyone’s large mug from the huge, aluminium teapot. Flett opened his notebook and began.
“Constable Morrison and I went to The Dalmarnock Weaving Factory in Cotton Street and I think we’ve learned a few new pieces of information that might be very useful if we can tie them in to both cases.” Pollock and Jacobstein both stopped eating for a good few seconds.
“I’m hoping against hope for a break, Noel.”
“Might all add up to nothing, sir, but I don’t think so. Here goes anyway, Farrell first. He was a supervisor with a nice line in stealing on the side. He got the sack forthwith when found out but the factory girls helping him weren’t traced. The management is still on the trail. They’ve sustained quite a loss over the last six months. No police called in, prefer to deal with it themselves.”
“Now that’s very interesting as Farrell and Meg along with Lena were seen quarrelling. Over the lucre, perhaps? Could those two girls have been the main thieves there along with Farrell?” asked Pollock. “Maybe a little group from the shop floor?”
“Correction, sir, lots of groups from the shop floor.”
“But our little group was there just the same.”
“’Fraid not, sir.”
“Damn it, Noel, what now?”
“Lena works on the machines alright, but Meg Hughes didn’t. She was a girl out to make the best of her ability and had got herself a job and a very good reputation in Accounts. She was a book-keeper on her way up a very respectable ladder.” Silence.
“The three of them quarrelling,” said Jacobstein thoughtfully. “Maybe they were trying to rope her in. But being in a different department, I don’t see how.”
“And they were sharing something. But all Meg had at her fingertips was figures. Bit of fraudulent accountancy?” Flett suggested.
“And nothing to do with the factory goods, Noel,” replied Jacobstein.
“Drugs!” declared Pollock, “that swine Farrell was expanding his business and needed hard cash to buy the merchandise to distribute the drugs himself.”
“And Meg was having none of it, none of his murky business. But where did the sharing come into it?” asked Jacobstein.
“Probably had nothing to do with it. Two girls just having a fight over nothing at all. But what if Meg were removed as she knew too much
about the drug business and wasn’t afraid to refuse Farrell.” Pollock let his suggestion linger in the air.
“And Lena,” put in Flett.
“So, does Lena become a prime suspect? Meg murdered and Farrell pushed into the River Clyde. We know from Calum Dolan that Farrell could barely swim. Was that fact general knowledge? Would a shove be enough to ensure that a man wearing a heavy winter coat, and who was known as a virtual non-swimmer, drowned? A murder that would be classified as a simple drowning accident?” A long silence followed Pollock’s latest theory. It was broken by Flett.
“Meg was also absent from work on Friday which, it seems, was a most unusual occurrence.
“And we still don’t know her whereabouts before meeting up with Dolan or who she was intending to meet. Any ideas?”
“Could’ve been Farrell, sir. You know, kiss and make up? I had a word with some of the office ladies at the beginning of their dinner-break. No regular boyfriend apparently for Meg but she definitely had her sights set on somebody. No name, though, no hints about him at all. Like a clam evidently but she wasn’t much of a talker anyway.”
“So why are you suggesting Farrell?” asked Pollock.
“She had once mentioned that the only attributes she was looking for in a husband were that he had to be older, settled, could protect her, be comfortably off.”
“And Farrell was indeed about ten years older than her and had what Meg would have considered the ability to keep her in comfort.” Pollock thought it over as Jacobstein spoke.
“But he liked to play the field.”
“She would have had a house and money, Noel,” said Jacobstein, “and that would be security enough for a girl who had been orphaned young. Maybe Farrell seeking his pleasures elsewhere on occasion would not have been an insurmountable objection. She was a book-keeper, remember, and would know all about massaging the household accounts to rake of a good few pounds for her own private bank account.”
“But assuming she turned down his request for a good sum of the firm’s money to be siphoned his way,” said Pollock, “what position would that put him in?”
“If he had committed in advance to supplying certain London people with opium or whatever it was, a very dangerous one.” The three of them pondered Jacobstein’s answer.
“So, he lashes out at Meg, regrets it later if he really cared for her, and drowns himself?” suggested Flett.
“It’s definitely worth considering,” said Pollock, glad that at last they had reached the stage of considering possible, credible scenarios. “By the way, what’s in that other paper by the desk over there?”
“Meg’s hat. It was found on the flat roof of one of the outbuildings in the coal yard. That yard’s huge. Winds its way right round the main office building. It seems the fog had come too low to search properly immediately, lifted a bit and so somebody was sent up and found it lodged in a drain-pipe.” The small hat of black velvet trimmed with a band of green buckram and two small rosettes whose colour was now indeterminate because of the filth of the drain-pipe and the muck of the thick fog, looked utterly pathetic. “That’s it put back together again. Somebody had hacked it about very badly.” Noel looked quite depressed as he spoke.
“How do we know it’s hers, Noel?”
“Mrs Adair identified it. She’s been haunting the scene since she was told about Meg’s death. Looking after Meg, she calls it. It’s been logged and that eager-beaver Milliken has photographed it along with the crime scene and everything else.”
“Take it to the lavatory and give it a bit of a clean then, Noel, when you’re finished eating. It might come in handy and it’s all we’ve got. Leave it at the desk for me. After that, you and Morrison go over her flat, 6 Spring Street, and see if there are any photographs, letters and anything the least bit relevant.” Noel Flett picked up his coat, hat and the deceased’s hat and left. “Curry at 6.30pm, Noel,” shouted Pollock and he and Jacobstein set to and cleared the table. There was not much to wash up as brown paper bags had replaced most plates, just the mugs and the teapot. Three very large cups had done nicely for the soup.
“If I find the one who chipped my mug, I’ll swing for him, Jake. No respect for hard-working folks’ personal property around here.”
The door was suddenly pushed open and Pollock’s heart sank.
“Signed off this morning, Pollock. Now bring me up to date,” announced Inspector Edward bell, settling down behind the desk, coat still on.
“Can’t do that, sir, no authorisation from HQ.”
“A mere formality. I’m officially fit to work.”
“And work starts for you, sir, on Monday. Until then, this is my case. In fact, both are officially my cases.” Pollock went through the drill but he knew it was hopeless.
“I’m waiting, Sergeant Pollock.”
“And I’m not and it’s still Inspector Pollock and Sergeant Jacobstein. Come on, Sergeant, let’s go.” Both men left.
Chapter 6
Ben Pollock clattered down the stairs, Jake Jacobstein close behind him, and out of the main door of Camlachie police station. He doubled back immediately and his sergeant had to produce a nifty piece of footwork to avoid colliding with him.
“You saw me leave, Sergeant Manley.” The uniformed policeman behind the desk nodded.
“That I did, sir.” Jacobstein was now standing beside Pollock. “Yours, sir, I believe.” Pollock took the large, manila envelope containing Meg’s hat and hurried into the first empty interview room he could find. Both CID men stood just inside it with the door open a fraction and listened intently. Bell’s voice boomed out.
“Did Pollock leave the building, sergeant?”
“I saw him go outside the building myself, sir, a minute or two ago with Sergeant Jacobstein at his back.” The outer door slammed to a few moments later.
“And the sergeant really did, didn’t he, Jake?” Jacobstein just shook his head and grinned. He had seen it all before. “Now, this hat, I wonder what secrets it might hold, Jake? Let’s see.” Pollock emptied the contents of the envelope onto the table inside the room and both men felt a sudden feeling of profound sadness. The little black hat had a conical-shaped top which seemed to speak of joy and hope, not despair and death. Pollock fingered the small rosettes of green and red silk ribbon. Altogether they spoke of Meg’s love of a good quality item although discarded by its previous owners.
“She was a girl with ambition, Ben, and can you tell me what was wrong with that?”
“Nothing, Jake, absolutely nothing. We have to catch this killer.” Pollock touched the newly-cleaned hat with a certain degree of reverence. He knew what it was like to come from nothing, determined to rise in the world, to leave the poverty all behind. He also knew how hard it had been for him but he could not imagine how hard it must have been for a girl who had been orphaned young. He looked again at the hat and was aware of all the hopes and dreams that had gone into its purchase, for it still oozed a certain amount of quality despite the rips and tears. He thought of the hopes and dreams that had been obliterated by the killer even before he had carelessly discarded the hat. The hat told them nothing. The maker’s name was sewn inside but that meant nothing as it had probably been sold repeatedly. Had Meg just bought it on the Friday, he wondered? Was that where she had gone? To Mary Govan’s Bazaar? Had she gossiped with the shop-girl? Told a little of her plans for that night? He would get Noel to look into it. He should be at the flat and that was just a stone’s throw from The Trongate. He decided then to give it a thorough search after he had spoken to the playboy of the East End, William Roberts.
“The ribbon, Jake.”
“The black buckram one on the black band? What about it?” Pollock drew the slightly damp hat towards him and looked closely at the small hat yet again.
“Not the bow, Ben, the two rosettes. One red, one green. Just the main colours of the design threads in the shawl. I think Meg saw these on herself. Quite distinctive, small enough, though, not to detract f
rom the beautiful shawl. Were those coloured ribbons on it when she bought it, I wonder? If she put them on herself, where did she buy the ribbons and when?”
“The nearest store she’d be likely to find that would stock a fair selection. Could be JAE. Couldn’t be closer and carries a varied stock in haberdashery.”
“Good God! And women do talk and tell when buying that sort of thing. If this leads us where I hope it will, I’ll be asking your Uncle Avram if I can buy shoes in his Emporium.” They both laughed and Pollock tucked the envelope under his arm.
“Wonder if there’s a box here, Ben, for that envelope does not say ‘Serious Murder Evidence’ to me or to anyone else. Still, there’ll be plenty of spare ones in the Emporium. That hat’s been treated with contempt by that killer. I suppose it’s all we can do now for Meg until we find her killer and charge him.”
“Then see him hanged.” Pollock’s expression was grim. “On second thoughts, I’ll snip an inch off both of the pieces left trailing and get Sergeant Manley to place the hat somewhere to dry. All that water in the drain-pipe has washed away anything else it might have told us long before Noel got to it.”
The fog still lingered and took the colour from everything. It was like looking at a sepia postcard of Glasgow street scenes, light browns, dark browns and more browns. They walked past The Clay Pipe, heard the raucous laughter, and continued on some twenty yards or so to the premises of Wm Roberts and Son, Coal Merchants.
“As he’s the only other – Farrell now being dead – that we can call a comfortably-off philanderer, we’ll give him everything we’ve got in the interviewing department. The man’s a swine but we’ll have to admit Meg Hughes might have been particular about criminal activities but not necessarily about married men.”