by Marie Rowan
“Come to gloat, have you?” That cut the feet from under Pollock. “Not you, Mr Jacobstein, for my ma always spoke well of your family. But him?” A shaky finger singled out Pollock and then fell helplessly onto Dolan’s knee again.
“I can assure you, Mr Dolan, we will do anything we can to find out what drove Mrs Dolan to take her own life. We can only do that, sir, if you co-operate with us.”
“Aye right. Like you’ve found Meg’s killer? That you think Farrell’s connected?” Dolan came to an abrupt halt.
“You were saying, Mr Dolan?”
“Aye, I was, I was saying that you flaff about but don’t really give a bloody damn about anything. Now, get tae hell out of my house and my life!”
“Actually, Mr Dolan, you should consider yourself lucky you’ve got any sort of life at all as far as I can see. Folk about you are dying off like flies and yet you’ve done nothing to help the men who’ve abandoned their own family life to try and find out what this is all about.” Pollock’s attention had left Calum for a moment, but he now turned and faced him with a thoughtful expression, his mind still turning over what Timothy Dolan had said in his grief-laden outburst. “You’ve now had plenty of time to think over what was said between you and Meg Hughes from the time she joined you until she suddenly vanished in the heavy fog. What sort of conversation did you have and I want it chapter and verse, Calum Dolan.” Calum Dolan sat down on the chair opposite his brother but avoided looking at him. He wore the same clothes he had worn the previous day although his shirt looked as if it had not seen a wash for a fortnight. Timothy’s clothes, by contrast, bore all the hallmarks of Adair fussiness.
“None – nearly – and I’ve told you that except about the fog. That’s it, more or less.”
“It’s the ‘more’ bit I’m after, sir. We need to know where she was intending going and why, for we already know that she had arranged to meet a friend just outside Norrie’s, the newsagent’s shop. Our problem is why she walked past it with you.” Pollock said nothing about his complete lack of knowledge of the time of that appointment. It could easily have been much later but he had the gut feeling that if he kept it all short and simple, Calum might just come up with an equally short and simple answer.
“Well, Inspector Pollock, I don’t know either. I know nothing at all. I just shouted over to the boys outside The Clay Pipe, turned round and Meg was gone. That’s it. Are you alright, Tim?” he asked suddenly. Timothy nodded and just sat staring into space once more. The fire in the grate had gone out.
“So the two of you, old friends from way back, relatives, too, walked in near-total silence from the moment she joined you, actually crossed the road to join you, until she was lost sight of in the fog. Do you expect anyone with half a brain to believe that, Mr Dolan? A lovely young woman? Sergeant Jacobstein here has a degree from the University of Glasgow in a very clever subject and I have one from the University of Scum-takers and all that makes the two CID men you are now dealing with experts in spotting liars. And I’m looking at one right now. I spent seven years of my life abroad with the army and every minute of every day my life was on the line through enemy action, disease or even just the food we ate. I’ve worked helluva hard to get to where I am in the police force and I refuse to put that in jeopardy for shite like you. So, answer the question. What did Meg Hughes say or convey to you in some way or another, what she was about that night? And before you even think of avoiding the question, I’ll tell you two things that might just influence your thought processes. One, we have witnesses who saw a conversation taking place and two, I’ll tear your life apart looking for every single misdemeanour you’ve committed until a stretch in prison is called for.” Pollock leaned against the sink and waited for his hopeful lies to fester. Jacobstein wondered how a degree in dead languages made him a super-detective. Calum Dolan just shrugged but then started talking.
“We did talk some, but it was all general, harmless stuff.” Pollock felt the sweat dripping down his back begin to ease off. “She was happy, excited but I swear to God I don’t know why. Honestly, she hardly spoke at all.” One look at Pollock’s frozen features and he had another think about it. “When Meg didn’t want to talk, nothing on God’s earth could prise anything from her. She’d always had her dreams. All I know is that she seemed really happy for she was singing to herself. Not singing to me, just to herself. I was kidding her on, asking if she was going to a party. Would she sing for me? No. I kept on trying, kept trying,” he said sheepishly. “Listen, Inspector Pollock, if I knew the swine who took her life, I’d kill him myself.” Pollock now did not doubt his sincerity or his grief.
“We’ll do that, Mr Dolan.”
“That was when I started the banter with the Celtic supporters outside The Clay Pipe. Diarmid McDaid lives in Hamilton and runs a brake club there. That’s why they all go into that pub. They’re all keyed up about the Glasgow Cup Final against Clyde today. Celtic should skate it, I think, but I don’t let that on to them. Wind them up a bit. Actually, they’re 5-1 up right now. Anyway, when I went to move on, I looked around for Meg and she was gone. That was it.” Pollock sighed audibly.
“Now, Calum, here we have a good-looking girl in your company, thick fog that spells danger in its many different forms and she vanished almost from the spot where a group of men were mingling half-cut outside O’Rourke’s pub and you made no enquiries as to where she had gone. Am I to believe this? From a man who declares he was very fond of her?” Dolan slammed his large fist against the arm of his chair.
“All right, all right! I did ask after her, asked a woman in the street. I don’t know who the woman was so you can’t check up on that, but I did whether you believe me or not.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said that Meg passed her just before O’Rourke’s and then stopped suddenly. The woman asked if anything was wrong and could she help. Seems she knew Meg. Meg said she’d been going to her cousin’s to borrow a pair of shoes as her own best ones were scuffed. She wanted them for a special occasion, she said. But she’d just remembered that her cousin wouldn’t be home as she’d said earlier on that she was meeting her husband down by the river.”
“Liar!” screamed Timothy Dolan, “damned liar!” Calum put his head in his hands as Jacobstein moved silently and stood by the door. Calum wanted to be anywhere but there, but the CID men knew he was being allowed to go nowhere.
“Sorry, Tim, but Meg’s dead and I want whoever did this to pay for it.”
“Right then, let’s just take this very easy. Nobody’s being accused of anything. Just settle down and let’s just see exactly what we know.” Pollock needed time, too. He needed to know why Timothy Dolan was distancing himself from what was probably just a married couple meeting after work. His thoughts sprang to the healing cup of tea but the fire in the grate was dead.
“Mr Dolan, Mr Timothy Dolan that is, did you in fact meet your wife that evening by the river?” Timothy Dolan shook his head vigorously, then gave in and wept bitterly. Pollock looked out of the window, Jacobstein quietly turned the pages of his notebook. “Why the river, Mr Dolan? It was very foggy, had been on and off for days now, especially down there?”
“I have a few pals who work with Calum here. Fly-men who think that my brother’s too soft for the game they were playing, the drugs atTthe Broomielaw. They were getting next to nothing out of it, so they reckoned they’d skim some off, I’d collect it and offer it to Farrell once Calum was out of the way. No comeback on him.”
“And your wife, Mr Dolan? Where did Lena come into it?”
“Lena was already working with him, with Farrell, a racket in the weaving factory. She was a really hard-headed negotiator. That’s what she called herself, a negotiator. The Broomielaw lads and I waited for what was bound to come – a crackdown by the police – and then we would have Farrell over a barrel. But he wasn’t to know where I’d got my supply. Could have been anywhere and I hinted at my friends in Greenock. The docks there,
you know. Didn’t matter just then for he was desperate for the packet, had customers waiting for it who didn’t like to be kept waiting an instant. He was really tight-fisted, was Farrell, and I knew he was really desperate. Lena said she could handle him and she certainly could. This attic looks like we’ve got nothing, but Lena’s own bank passbook is bulging. The money I got from Farrell the first night we tried it has already bought a big flat in the South Side.”
“And what happened down by the river last night, Mr Dolan?”
“Lena and Farrell were already there when I arrived. He was wearing that heavy, black coat of his and a white scarf. I remember thinking what a fool he was. A shady meeting and him wearing a white scarf. He stuck out like a sore thumb even in the fog. Lena had already closed the deal, Farrell examined the packet I’d brought, gave me the money and I hopped it leaving Lena to discuss further business with him. We’d asked a sensible price so he didn’t feel robbed. All very civilised.”
“And then? asked Pollock slightly on edge.
“There are no witnesses to all of this, Mr Pollock, so you’ll have to choose yourself whether you believe me or not.” Pollock nodded.
“There’s no problem there. What happened next?”
“I suddenly heard Lena’s voice being raised, I was only about thirty feet or so away so I could still see them faintly through the fog that was coming off the Clyde. There is a lamppost close by where they were standing. Farrell had insisted on that so that he could inspect the goods. Whatever was or had been said by Farrell to her, Lena just pushed him and walked away a good yard or two. I’m sure she didn’t know I was nearby for she didn’t mention it to me later on. Anyway, Farrell stumbled back and down into the river. Lena walked back and looked over the side. I just thought he’d be swimming towards the steps farther down for she just walked away in the opposite direction from me. Calum told me later that Farrell couldn’t swim. Wearing that heavy coat, he didn’t stand a chance.” Calum Dolan spoke once again.
“Lena knew, knew he couldn’t swim. She once asked Farrell why he put up with a fool like me, Lena’s very words, and he told her. She could be very cruel, she was about that.”
“An accident not suicide?”
“Aye, Farrell, in a way, I suppose, but definitely not my Lena’s death. I know she gave Calum a hard time, but we had dreams, Lena and I had dreams.”
“Very expensive dreams, though, Mr Dolan. Once again, I give you my deepest sympathy and I promise we’ll look into what happened to Miss Hughes and to Mrs Dolan very carefully. We’ll be in touch and thank you both for your help.”
Both detectives were desperate for a crisp, clear day and emerged from the close disappointed. Still, even the foggy air was air of a kind, away from all the grief and confessions.
“What a way to go, eh, Jake? Dragged down by your fancy coat?”
“That’s Farrell out of the frame anyway, Ben.”
“Who’s left?”
“The coal-king. He’s a tricky one and we’ve really only gut instinct on this one. There’s no actual evidence. Maybe the incomparable Miss Malone will throw us a lifeline.”
Chapter 8
Pollock was deep in thought about how best to conduct the interview with the astute Miss Malone. He was certain that under no circumstances, including murder, would she put herself on the losing side. He would have to be subtle, forceful, understanding and ruthlessly aggressive. In other words, he had to be Edward Bell.
“So, who is still on the list of suspects, Jake?”
“Roberts, Costello the watchman and MacNamee, the world’s Number 1 loser and generally nice lad.”
“I would normally rule out Tommy but I’m desperate and I would personally recommend an appeal for clemency from the Home Secretary if they decide to hang him.”
“That leaves Roberts and Costello.”
“I would also erase Harry Costello from the list only there’s something not right there that’s ringing a bell I can but faintly hear.”
“Roberts then? Is he our man, Ben?” asked Jacobstein. “We need some hard evidence, Ben.” Pollock nodded in agreement. “Unless we’re totally on the wrong track.”
“We’re not for we’re not actually on any definite track at all. But that man Roberts is a total bastard and I’ll get him for Meg Hughes’ murder. He’s involved in it somewhere. He’s a lecher and working-class girls are expendable in his eyes. That Euphemia knows something, not enough for him to be hanged, maybe, but enough to put us firmly on his track and I’ll have it out of her by the time Gordon’s curry hits my stomach. Right, what’s Tommy up to?” They crossed the street to where MacNamee was standing as it was quite obvious that MacNamee wanted a word with them and Pollock felt guilty for not managing to get back to him.
MacNamee motioned them into the narrow alley that ran between The Clay Pipe and Roberts’ offices.
“You want a word, Tommy?” asked Pollock stating the obvious. “Sorry I haven’t got back to you. We’ve been extremely busy. By the way, when did Inspector Bell have a word with you?”
“When I was waiting in the queue for half a pound of Belfast ham. The wife had sent me out for rolls and ham for breakfast and I happened to meet Mr Bell. Now, just a quick word, Inspector Pollock. Well, two things really.” Tommy laughed then quickly quietened down. “Now you didn’t think I could count to two, did you Mr Pollock?” Pollock looked shocked.
“Now we both know you’re a bookie’s runner, Tommy, so I would definitely not take you on in an arithmetic competition.”
“Thanks, Mr Pollock, now time is of the essence as Peter Peterson would say. He’s a great one for reading the books, you know. Never out of that library in Landressy Street. These women librarians examine your hands in there to see if they’re clean enough to touch the books. Strike the fear of death into the wee weans. But that’s by the by. To come to the point, I knew it was suicide, that business of Lena Dolan, Adair as was, going over the bannister and into the stairwell. But you might just be puzzled as to why there and not into the Clyde. Suicide’s just suicide after all. So why bother about fussing about how you do it? Just a thought that. Well, Inspector Pollock, Lena was asked to go there.” Both detectives stared at MacNamee.
“Tommy, now you’re not noted for fantasising so I hope you’re not starting now.” MacNamee shook his head decisively.
“Certainly not, sir, not me, never.” MacNamee was most indignant.
“Do you know who she was going to meet, Tommy?” The man smiled broadly.
“I do, for she told me herself.” Then MacNamee frowned as if a sudden realisation had hit him. “She asked me to buy a steak-pie from Gus the Butcher’s. It was for her man’s tea. They had been sold out when she had been there earlier on but they were waiting for another batch to be taken out of the ovens. Said she couldn’t go back there herself as she had to go round to Gill’s Court to see Owen Farrell’s widow. A wee boy had just given her the message telling her that Farrell had left an envelope for her there. I didn’t get the steak pie for they were out of them yet again. I gave the money Lena had given me to the bartender in The Weaver’s Maiden to give to Timothy. Dolan was at his work or something. Never saw Lena again.”
“Thanks, Tommy. Tell Mr McDaid to give you a pie and a pint and I’ll pay him later.”
“Many thanks. Mr Pollock. Did that information help? By the way, I found this in the lane by the coal yard. A bit filthy. A scarf.” MacNamee handed the muck-soaked item over and quickly vanished in the direction of The Clay Pipe. Pollock knew the celebrations in there would go on all night. He examined the scarf. It was expensive, silk and definitely not within Meg’s budget. He handed it over to Jacobstein and left the problem of temporary storage to him and the silent detectives began to walk back along Great Eastern Road and stopped at the side-door of the coal yard. Jacobstein turned to Pollock.
“My God, Ben, another murder!”
“Was there a fourth party further inside that back-close that morning and, if so, who wa
s it? Roberts?” asked Pollock.
“Are we just theorising? What a mess.”
“We’ll let the super know about this, Jake. I’ll send a note to him as soon as we get back to the office.”
“And he’ll say, ‘Carry on and make it snappy, boys.’ That’ll be the end of his involvement.”
“Probably. Right now I want a word with Harry Costello. Can’t blame him for abandoning Camlachie nights.”
The side door closed with a thud which gave Costello time to peep through the grimy window and wipe the bread-crumbs off his even grimier jacket.
“The universal watchman’s uniform,” laughed Jacobstein. “Clean shirt, though,” murmured the sartorially turned out Jacobstein impressed.
“A new leaf being turned, Jake. It’s one helluva shake-up that man’s had to get him to this point. Good coming out of bad.” Pollock raised his voice in greeting as Harry Costello opened the door and beckoned them inside.
“Good day, Mr Costello. Been tidying up, have you?” Pollock asked and sat down on the rickety chair Costello pointed to.
“Waiting for the sales in your Emporium, Mr Jacobstein. A new chair, that is. I’ll buy one and lug it back to the wife and she’ll give me one of ours.” Jacbstein sat very cannily on the edge of the now extremely tidy desk and smiled.
“There are a few surplus to requirements in our basement storeroom that might do if you’ve decided to stay on, Mr Costello. I’ll have them send one over free of charge. It’ll help give us some much-needed space.” Costello was profuse in his thanks.
“I’m staying. Now how can I help you gentlemen? A mug of tea first?”
“We’re in a hurry so, no thanks, Mr Costello. Just a quick word really.”
“Harry, please, Mr Pollock.”
“Then Harry it is. That dreadful evening when young Meg Hughes was killed, I came in here to speak to you.” Costello nodded, his face quite white for a moment.