by Marie Rowan
“Thank you, Mrs Stanger. It’s these pieces of ribbon. Do we have the exact same in JAE?” Both men waited and watched as the lady turned the red and green snippets in her well-shaped hands as she inspected them closely. She nodded.
“A very sad reminder, I’m afraid,” she said so softly Pollock could barely hear her above the loud murmurs of the shoppers. There was a good mix of rising middle-class, ambitious working-class and a good few who just appreciated looking at and feeling good quality goods. Good service and value for money. Uncle Avram and the family must be worth a packet, thought Pollock. He wondered if his sergeant was what society called ‘discreetly wealthy’. Then Pollock caught sight of some Irish linen tray-cloths and felt very contented with life. He turned back to Mrs Stanger.
“And why is that, Mrs Stanger?” Jacobstein was asking, his hopes beginning to rise.
“I sold a yard of red and one of green to the young woman who was killed in Mr Roberts’ yard last evening. I can’t stop thinking about it, Mr Joseph.” Jacobstein let that go for the woman was visibly upset. “I always served her whenever she came into JAE. She was a pleasure to serve. Always knew exactly which trimmings she wanted but she also liked to see anything new that had come in. She said she’d bought a new hat – well, new for her, and wanted to give it a boost of colour as it was completely black. Miss Hughes her name was. I know that because sometimes after she’d paid for her purchase, she would leave it until she’d had a look round the store. We always write the customer’s name on the purchases.”
“Was the hat intended to be worn for a special occasion, Mrs Stanger? Did she mention that to you?” asked Jacobstein gently.
“Yes, she did.” Pollock’s world stopped revolving, Jacobstein’s mind froze – for a second. “I had become quite friendly with her. She’d been coming in here since she left school and had a few pence to spare for ribbons and such. She usually waited until I was free to serve her. She chatted a lot about trimmings and how useful they were but very little about herself and her everyday life.”
“And the hat?” asked Jacobstein putting the assistant back on track, he hoped.
“She’d bought it second-hand, she said. Beautiful condition, was how she described it, but for the special occasion she wanted it to match a little with something else she would be wearing.”
“Did she say how she planned to do it?”
“Rosettes. Two of them, one red and one green, an inch in diameter, that was her plan. She did once tell me that she had been very good at maths at school so that was why she’d become a book-keeper.”
“Now try and think very carefully about this, Mrs Stanger, did she mention the reason for all of this special activity or was it just her normal way of behaving?” Both Jacobstein and Pollock waited anxiously, both no longer aware of the people around them shopping, chatting, choosing and laughing.
“Well, it was more than the usual off-hand chat. She was full of pent-up excitement. It was obvious she was expecting something special to happen. “ Mrs Stanger gulped and dried off the tears that had sprung to her clear, blue eyes. “Maybe I should say someone instead of something, Mr Jacobstein.”
“Did she happen to mention this person’s name?” Mrs Stanger shook her head and blinked the tears away.
“She just said it was for someone special, a beautiful someone special. I suggested a millionaire just teasing her, but she shook her head and smiled. She said he was a quiet man, a man of means, a good man. That was all except that she had ruined one of her best shoes and that she would have to borrow a pair from her cousin.” So that’s where she had been going when she had left Calum Dolan, thought Pollock. Probably had seen no light on in the attic and had turned back.
“Did she say where she was meeting him? Or when?” Jacobstein was very persistent.
“Yesterday evening, just by the newsagent’s. People would normally say to meet by his advertising board on the pavement if it was before he had closed but he was closed by the time we closed, too, at six o’clock. Very early for him but the fog was keeping people at home.”
“So, it could have been anytime after six, Mrs Stanger?” asked Pollock.
“I expect so.” Mrs Stanger looked over at her counter.
“Anything else you’d like to ask, Inspector Pollock?” asked Jacobstein.
“I don’t think so, sergeant. Thank you, Mrs Stanger, you’ve helped us a lot.” The lady walked slowly back to her counter and was soon lost among the swirling crowd of customers. “Solves a lot, Jake, well done. There’s Flett. What next? But a question for you, Jake. I take it your Uncle Avram is keen on the American way of advertising?”
“A potent power, he calls it,” answered Jacobstein wryly. “Why?”
“Best wait till Noel comes over. These enamel mugs on that shelf over there. Are they for sale? The ones with JAE printed on them?” Jacobstein shook his head.
“Usually, but some are just given away to special customers. Want one?” Pollock nodded and his sergeant returned a few minutes later with one in a paper bag.
“Now that puts me up there with Harry Costello.” Jacobstein laughed. “Now why would he have one, Jake?”
“For bagel services rendered probably.” They both laughed at that one.
“Many thanks, Jake. Let’s see what Noel wants.”
Flett was cooling his heels on the pavement outside.
“Not another murder, Noel? We’re full up already.”
“No, sir, a suicide.”
“Who?”
“Lena Dolan. Chucked herself over a banister and fell three flights to her death in Gill’s Court.” Pollock said nothing, just clasped the mug tightly and slowly made his way along to Camlachie police station.
Chapter 7
Pollock slumped down hard behind his desk, his face unreadable, his thoughts in chaos. He looked down at his hands and realised he was still clutching fast to the tin mug. JAE. He suddenly ripped the bag open.
“Tea! Hot and plenty of it and put mine in this and bin the chipped one.” He pushed the enamelled mug towards Flett as Jacobstein filled the kettle. “Does JAE sell those with HELP marked on them, Jake, for that’s exactly what we need.”
“Thought you might.” Bell appeared, slammed down a bag full of buns before Pollock and said, “Take my advice, Pollock, and look into Farrell’s death. Big time there, not petty squabbles in the coal-yard.” Then he was gone.
“He’s an absolute swine these days!”
“With a good taste in buns. Sit down when the tea’s ready, lads, and let’s catch a killer.” Pollock ripped the bag open. “Take your pick, Noel, from the Paris buns, cream cookies and a fern cake.” The fern cake vanished. “Now, eat, drink and think. That was always Bell-of-old’s method and it’s a good one. He’s still pulling the strings, in a way. Let’s see what we know for certain so far and then it’s round to Gill’s Court. Suicide? But why? Still, that answer will almost certainly come under the heading of ‘surmised’. These buns are exceptionally good. From ‘Dough, Frae, Me’, do you suppose, Noel? Your local knowledge is at a premium here.”
“I think so from the sublime taste of the fern cake. And Mrs Seaton always has a special wee twist she adds when closing the bag.” Flett had a squint at the remains and nodded.
“Why doesn’t Mr Seaton put his bakery’s name on the bag, Jake?”
“That requires money and plenty of it.”
“I see,” said Pollock thoughtfully. “Is that at the root of all this? Farrell’s ill-gotten gains? Who were his business contacts?”
“Roberts,” Noel suggested, helping himself to a cream cookie. Pollock nodded.
“We’ll come back to him for there’s something not quite right here.” He took up his pencil and selected a sheet of fresh paper from the tray on the desk. “First, what do we know about Meg Hughes?”
“A young, ambitious woman, had her eye on an older man, thought it might give her the security she longed for and got murdered for her troubles,” said Jacobs
tein quietly.
“And then there was Roberts. I’ll bet Miss Euphemia Malone could tell us chapter and verse about that lecher.” Pollock scowled as he spoke. “I think we might just have another go at speaking to her once we learn what’s known about Lena Dolan’s demise. What a hellish few days for the Adairs. My heart goes out to them for they seemed to be a very close family.”
“Owen Farrell was a frequent visitor to the Adair household according to my cousin,” said Flett. “But don’t worry, sir, I wasn’t discussing the case. There was a whipround for a wreath in Yate Street and my cousin lives there. Adair, himself, had kicked it off handsomely and my cousin mentioned it to my aunt, his mother. Two deaths at the same time almost, Meg’s and Farrell’s, and it was said that Meg’s father and Charlie Adair’s brother had once sailed upon the high seas together. Old friends.”
“And Lena wouldn’t say where she’d been that evening. Beside the Clyde? A romantic interlude outside marriage?” suggested Pollock.
“Or a business one,” put in the more practical Jacobstein. “I don’t see Lena as a romantic young lady.”
“Why else would she have married that dozy git Timothy Dolan?”
“That puzzled me, too.” Noel Flett was singularly devoid of romantic feeling at the moment due to an unfortunate episode involving courting a girl whose penchant for hurrying him up the aisle at breakneck speed had somewhat dimmed his ardour momentarily.”
“This’ll all keep for the moment,” said Pollock pointing to the mugs. “We’ll wash up and the cleaning lady will dry and tidy all away. We paid her yesterday. We’ll see what Gill’s Court has to tell us. Maybe Lena will have left a note.”
“She hasn’t!”
“Flett, you could find that consistently being the bearer of bad news makes you supernumerary on this case. Come on. That mug had better still be here when I get back.” Pollock charged downstairs and out onto the street.
The streets were crowded, the fog beginning once more to suffuse the darkening winter’s afternoon with gloom, visibility being reduced yet again. The Glasgow Cup Final would be in full swing by now, thought Pollock. He glanced at Jacobstein and knew his thoughts were also on the action in Cathkin Park.
“Gill’s Court. What’s the number? Which way, Noel?”
“Number 5. We’re almost there already. Opposite side of the street, opposite Coalhill Street and Society Street, through a lane and then you’re into it, the court, I mean. It backs onto the Eastern Necropolis, Janefield Cemetery.”
“And just a general type of population lives there?”
“Not a thieves’ paradise, sir. Just hard workers, nothing more. It’s just off here, sir.”
The hushed crowd had been pushed back through the short lane that led into the court and out onto the busy street.
Pollock and Jacobstein made for the policemen standing just outside No 5 and were let through the cordon.
“We meet again, Inspector Pollock. Are you commissioning these?”
“Dr McPherson, I presume,” said Pollock shaking hands with his old friend. He forced himself to look at the shattered body lying there before him in that dingey close and reminded himself that Lena Dolan had once been a lovely girl. She was now a bloodied, broken corpse. Jacobstein suddenly found his notebook deeply interesting, Flett wisely remaining outside.
“From where, do you think, Kenny?” Third floor? Second?” The doctor shook his head faintly.
“Third, they say, but I’m not sure it would have made a lot of difference. It’s some height, very steep stairs. Came smashing down, it seems.” McPherson shook his head and grimaced at the thought. “She came right down the open stairwell. I think she deliberately choose this one. Most of the city’s tenements are closed in. You can fall down the stairs and maybe kill yourself but falling into an open stairwell and it’s lights out for good.”
“You’re certain it was suicide?”
“No note, but that doesn’t always happen, not by any manner of means. Any connection with your murder case? Her cousin, wasn’t it?”
“She was very upset about that. She was very close to the girl.”
“Possibly that then.” Pollock and Jacobstein made their way up the stairs and stood at the top looking down.
“A fire here some weeks ago – on this landing. These flats here are empty until they can be gutted and the occupants moved back in. Factor’s dragging his heels until the insurers pay out,” Jacobstein explained. He shrugged and added, “So the constable downstairs told me while you were talking to the doc.”
“So, the place was quiet, men and women at work, the pub or the football, children at the park or in the house on a day like this with their mothers if too young to be outside. Nobody on this floor to interfere. Where’s the husband? Did the constable say?” Jacobstein nodded.
“He was brought from his work but had to be taken away. Went berserk. Back in the attic by now, I expect. Or The Weaver’s Maiden.”
“So, he finally gets the insurance money. It’s a bad day, Jake, a bad few days around here, but by the time the final whistle blows, the talk will only be about football.”
“Were you going, Ben?”
“Yes, but just a little thing like a murder has put the tin lid on that.” Jacobstein smiled and Pollock frowned. “Life goes on,” he said dejectedly.
“Now let’s pay the Adairs a visit and pay our respects,” said Pollock. “Noel can ask around and find out if anyone saw her and what state she seemed to be in. But I think that’s as far as we’ll go with this one.”
Mrs Adair was once more sitting by the fire warming her thin, outstretched hands. The menfolk were arranged quietly around the kitchen table, silent, shocked, as Joe Adair showed the two CID men into the room. Charlie Adair looked up, ashen-faced and worn-out looking.
“They’re both gone now. No girls left.” His voice broke and he sobbed.
“We’ve just come to tell you how sorry we are to hear what happened to your daughter, Lena, Mr Adair.” Pat Adair tipped back his chair roughly and glared at Pollock as Pollock spoke. “Happened’s the word. What happened to her and don’t bloodywell tell me she jumped?”
“Pat!” his mother moaned, “leave it, just leave it, for God’s sake. Just leave the poor lassie in peace.” Pat Adair picked up his chair but didn’t sit down.
“A word,” he said to Pollock and looked towards the door. “There’s nothing for you here.” Pollock and Jacobstein slipped outside onto the landing and Pat Adair followed them closing the door softly behind him. “I’ll say one thing only to you and that’s this. My sister was the last person in this world to even consider leaving it. There’s evil going on here and you’d better find out what it is or I’ll break your bloody neck.”
“Mr Adair, if you offer me or any of my men violence, I’ll break yours. Good-day.”
Pollock walked slowly along Yate Street away from the tangible grief that haunted the Adair family.
“We should have minded our own bloody business right enough, Jake.”
“We?”
“Alright, me, I should have known better. Now between you and me, I don’t relish taking on Pat Adair, jaikets aff, for I have a huge respect for his brawling capacities. And God knows why I went there.”
“Common decency, Ben. But if you really are past it, I suppose I’ll just have to take on Pat myself.” Jacobstein sounded slightly alarmed. Pollock laughed grimly.
“Only if he finds us, Jake, and I’ll make damned sure that doesn’t happen. The brain work’s more in my line these days. But, you know, I have to agree with Adair, Lena didn’t strike me as suicidal the last time we spoke to her. Let’s see, we have one murder and two suicides and they’re all connected, I’m sure of that. But we still don’t know where Lena was the night Meg was murdered or where Meg went when she left Calum Dolan. There are two things we must do, Jake, speak to Timothy Dolan and have Miss Euphemia Malone in for an in-depth interview.” They crossed over Coalhill Street only to be hailed by No
el Flett. “Anything doing?” asked Pollock.
“Not a thing. A man living in one of the bottom flats found the body, literally shit himself, and then ran outside and bumped into the local beat man. The body was all over the place, contents as well.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Noel,” Jacobstein protested. Flett ignored him. “The contents of her bag, too. They were given to Timothy Dolan. All there was in it was a small mirror, a comb, a handkerchief and a purse with 7/3d in it. These here were missed, scattered about and overlooked. Too much gore.” He handed the broken hair clasps to Pollock. “They’ve been wiped of blood,” he said as Pollock slipped the clasps into his pocket.
“I’ll see Dolan gets them. We’re on our way to Coalhill Street now to talk to him. If Calum’s with him, so much the better. Noel, we should be back in the office within thirty minutes or so. Would you track down Euphemia Malone and take her there. Take a cab if you have to. By the way, Noel, Jake, the curry’s still on. The time is not fixed absolutely if you can’t make it for whatever reason for it always tastes better when reheated.”
Silence reigned between Pollock and Jacobstein when they smiled and passed Mrs Peterson outside the close mouth as she talked to some neighbours. The stairs were badly worn and had to be mounted with care.
“If either of these two Dolans know what Lena Dolan was doing last night, I’ll get it out of them, Jake. We need to know if we’ve any chance of solving Meg Hughes’ death. If it were all above board, Lena would have told us and we know she was in that group with Meg and Farrell arguing about something and it wasn’t about whose turn it was for washing the stairs.” Jake chapped loud and hard on the door. It was hauled open abruptly and Calum Dolan stood and glared.
“A word of respect is what we’re here to give primarily, Mr Dolan. We’ve come to have a word with your brother, Timothy, to see if we can help him in any way.” Calum Dolan stood back and they entered as the attic door was closed behind them. Timothy Dolan was the picture of absolute misery, his eyes red with grief, an odd look of irritation in his eyes. Pollock realised that they were probably the last people he wanted to see.