DEATH WATCH

by Marie Rowan

  “I’ll never forget anything about that night. It’s changed my life forever. I was all for chucking in the job, but the boss suggested that I switch with McMaster who’s a ghoulish swine anyway so, I did. It’s night and day and so’s my life now. They have two watchmen on in the daytime but the other one’s not capable of working within a murder scene. Keeps vanishing. What do you want to know?”

  “Well, Harry, to put it quite frankly, this place very closely resembled a midden.”

  “Quite so, sir. But all cleaned up and tidy now. They’re replacing that window with a much larger one tomorrow so the last of the grime will have gone. Same with the jacket.” Pride shone from Costello’s well-shaved and scrubbed face.

  “As I have implied, Harry, your office here was definitely not in the pristine condition it’s in today.”

  “Me lying flat out and dead drunk didn’t help,” added Harry blushing furiously.

  “It certainly did not but that’s not what I’d like to ask you about. That’s all yesterday’s news. You had a desk and every surface in here covered with crushed, used and greasy paper bags.”

  “Too fond of sugared doughnuts. I’ve given them up for ginger biscuits. You can dip them in your tea. But doughnuts – oh no!”

  “You also had numerous cracked cups and mugs, mostly unwashed.”

  “Not guilty, sir, for that’s McMaster’s idea of cleanliness. I always use a yellow tinny, keeps the tea hot and doesn’t crack. Still, I think it had probably been knocked under the desk by me when the drink reached my legs.”

  “Probably. We’ve all been there, Harry, but not when on duty.”

  “Point taken, Mr Pollock.”

  “What I did notice in the short time I was here was that among the debris and clutter, up on that shelf behind the desk sat a single, white, clean, unchipped enamelled mug with Jacobstein’s American Emporium’s initials printed on it in blue.”

  “Was it? It’s my new one. Great the things you can do when you’re drunk, Inspector Pollock. I remember I had my tea in it earlier that evening as McMaster had used the yellow one and not washed it. Washed, was it? I certainly don’t remember washing it out, though.”

  “Why did you buy that when you still had the other yellow one?”

  “I didn’t. It was a present. Your Uncle Avram, Mr Jacobstein, was standing by the counter when I brought in the bagels one morning. He lifted that one off the shelf and told me to take it in appreciation for all my years of bagel deliveries. Lovely man, so he is. Now why would I wash it so well and place it on the shelf then forget all about it? The mind is a very intricate mechanism, gentlemen.”

  “You’re telling me, Harry. That’s cleared another little point up for us so we’re very grateful.” Pollock rose and he and Jacobstein made for the door.

  “I’ll see to the chair when I’ve a minute to spare,” said Jacobstein and then quietly closed the paint-peeling door as best he could.

  They made for Camlachie police station door on the double.

  “Can’t keep the lady waiting all day, Jake.”

  “What was all that about back there, Ben?”

  “Just something or nothing. I simply don’t know which. Somebody who’s fussy? Likes neatness? I don’t know. Maybe we should suspect your Uncle Avram.” Jacobstein roared with laughter and a mental picture of his extremely fussy, immaculately turned-out uncle drifting about in Harry Costello’s howf without throwing up at the smell and mess in there that night, was one he quickly banished from his mind.

  The front office was quiet, unusually so, a rest from three deaths in quick succession, albeit what was generally regarded as one murder and two suicides, was very welcome. But, Pollock reminded himself, it had not as yet been proved that Lena Dolan’s death was murder. They climbed the stairs to the office.

  “I’ll write that note out outlining where we are to the superintendent just to let him know that we might be needing more feet on the ground. Pollock sat down behind his desk as he spoke and quickly composed the note to his superior officer. The unmistakable aroma of a great curry drifted up the stairs through the open door. John Gordon appeared a few moments later bearing a huge pot of chicken curry.

  “The small pot already on the shelf there is a vegetable one for you Sergeant Jacobstein, if you’re fussy. Him downstairs is complaining about the smell so I’ll leave them here as he says it’s only your lot using it at the moment and I’ll reheat it when you’re ready to eat.”

  “Tastes better that way, John. Hang about downstairs and then come up and eat with us. No secrets will be aired. These popadoms? Let’s have some for I’m extremely hungry. Help yourself,” Pollock said to Noel who had newly arrived and whose hand had already reached out to do just that. Gordon lingered.

  “Something wrong, John?” asked Pollock above the sound of popadoms being crunched.

  “I saw Mr Roberts’ typist, sorry, the coal baron’s secretary, waiting downstairs. She was taken into a room and given tea and biscuits. Are you interviewing her about Wullie Roberts, may I ask?”

  “Ask away, only no answers will be forthcoming.” Gordon just smiled.

  “I was in the army with her father. He died with a host of others in the West Indies, you know. Effie always was a smart kid. She was born out there. Grew up there, more or less. She’s smart, too smart for Old King Coal. Anyway, I’ll assume it’s Wullie you’re interested in and I’ll talk if you’d care to listen and say nothing.” Pollock smiled broadly knowing that John Gordon seldom spoke and said nothing.

  “You go ahead, John,” he said, just being beaten to the last popadom by Jacobstein. “I think we’re going to need a few more of these later on, John.”

  “So I see. Wullie Roberts. Not that much to say, really, but it also concerns Meg Hughes, so I thought any wee bit of information might help. I saw them together just off George Square yesterday.”

  “We know they bumped into each other.” Pollock watched the expression on Gordon’s face change from surprise to understanding.

  “Bumped into each other?” he asked.

  “In the door of a café, JeanLuc’s Parisian Café, one going in, one going out.” A huge smile crossed the cook’s face.

  “He told you that?” Pollock nodded and waited.

  “Then he’s a bigger liar than Tam Pepper. They might have bumped into each other but they certainly didn’t part immediately. I was waiting by the tram stop outside for my mate and the two of them were having a meal together. My old army mate came along ten minutes later, and that pair were still there – together. Just give me a wee shout downstairs when you want to eat Mr Pollock.” Pollock felt like the cat that had got at the cream.

  “Have you ever considered outside catering, Mr Gordon?” asked Jacobstein. “Finance would not be a problem, I can assure you. Nor premises to cook in.”

  “It did cross my mind, Sergeant Jacobstein, this morning. It’s might be a thought worth following up,” said Gordon and the detectives listened to Gordon’s feet as he clattered down the stairs. Pollock poured the forgotten contents of Lena Dolan’s bag from the envelope onto the table and Jacobstein put the scarf just beyond them.

  “A silk scarf. Too expensive for Meg.”

  “Unless she was in fact involved in the drugs business,” suggested Jacobstein.

  “True and the colours match, oddly enough.” Pollock suddenly pushed the lot away from him. “Noel, put that envelope with the rest of them and we’ll look at them after we’ve interviewed Miss Malone.” The office door suddenly banged off the wall.

  “Are you going to sit there all day doing nothing, Pollock?” Bell’s voice was dangerously subdued.

  “Lena Dolan was murdered.”

  “I know that! Who did it?” Bell’s eyes never moved from Pollock’s face.

  “How should I know? It’s not officially a murder case yet. I only learned about it ten minutes ago.” Pollock wondered why he was acting like Bell’s underling.

  “Want to know who actually did do i
t?” asked Bell.

  “According to you, sir, probably Owen Farrell from beyond the grave, only he’s not actually in his grave as yet, I believe. Now push off, Mr Bell, for I’m getting totally sick of you. You’re ill. You can’t think straight so take yourself off to a sanitorium and come back when you’re more rational. You need to rest, Inspector Bell, and I need to think without your continual interference.” Bell stood stock still and Pollock thought he was about to be assaulted. Jacobstein closed in.

  “The ever-faithful Joseph Jacobstein, eh? Pollock and Jacobstein, just like the old Bell and Pollock. I’m still having to do it for you, Ben.” Bell walked away but turned at the door. “Just remember, Sergeant Pollock, one and one make two.” He left closing the door quietly behind him. The others finally relaxed. Pollock shook his head.

  “I’m really worried about him. I’m beginning to think his mind’s gone. When this is over, I’m going to speak to Dr McPherson. I wouldn’t be surprised if they pulled him out of the Clyde some day.”

  “And he was superb in his day, I’m told.” Jacobstein and Flett sat down at the table. Neither of them had worked very closely with Bell.

  “And a brilliant mind it was, too. My God, what’s he really up to? He’s blundering about and he just might spook our murderer. We might just get a bit of sanity from Euphemia, John Gordon’s dear Effie, Malone, and she’ll get to eye her favourite detective.”

  The desk sergeant scowled at Pollock and Jacobstein as he stood by the office door, but seemed prepared to tolerate Flett, everybody’s pal.

  “It’s not allowed, Inspector Pollock, and you are quite aware of that.” He shuffled the papers in his hands and waited. Pollock waited too. The sergeant was obviously aware that Pollock’s higher rank had only a few more days to run and then he would be on a par with himself.

  “We’ll make sure there’s a bowl of curry put aside for you.” Curry was an international language and Pollock knew it.

  “Thank you, sir. The lady’s in No 2 interview room.” The desk sergeant looked almost delighted as he left the room.

  “Whoever said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, knew what he was talking about, Jake. Here we go. Don’t look so grim, she’s not a suspect. You won’t be walking out with a criminal.” A few heated words in Yiddish hit the air, Pollock smiled broadly.

  Pollock opened the interview room door and greeted the smiling lady there, very alert-looking and sitting on the other side of the table.

  “Good-day, Miss Malone, good of you to come in. You’ve already met Sergeant Joseph Jacobstein.” Jacobstein sat down as Euphemia Malone did a mental ticking-off of his more obvious, desirable attributes. He turned over the pages in his well-used notebook, totally unconcerned, it seemed, beneath the creeping flush that now suffused his features. Miss Malone enjoyed playing that game. She also liked another policeman a lot better but there was no playing for fun there.

  “Good-day to you, too, Inspector Pollock. Lovely to see the fog’s now lifting.”

  “Yes, indeed it is, and I sincerely hope that you’ll be able to lift some of the fog surrounding this case.”

  “And which case would that be, Mr Pollock? Murders and suicides. A bit of a mix-up perhaps? Rumours abound.” Pollock nodded.

  “Unfortunately, Miss Malone, they do. At the moment we are officially investigating one murder and that’s where I hope you can help us. That’s what we’re concentrating on.”

  “I see. Where, though, do I come in? How can I help you?” Miss Malone’s very frank blue eyes looked straight into Pollock’s expectantly. He smiled.

  “As you know. Miss Malone, we’re conducting enquiries into a very serious incident and we hope, we think, you might be able to help.”

  “I shall certainly do my best, Inspector Pollock. What would you like to know?” Miss Malone glanced over at Jacobstein and her expression registered her approval of his pencil and notebook. She nodded and smiled at him showing small, beautiful and even white teeth.

  “I can assure you, Miss Malone, that I have no intentions of prying into your personal business.” Pollock had only just stopped himself saying ‘affairs’. Euphemia Malone barely suppressed a giggle and Pollock realised she could read him like a book. “I’d like you to give us an account of your dealings with your former employer on the Friday evening of this week.”

  “Last night?” Pollock nodded. “Technically, Mr Roberts is still my employer until next Saturday. Have to give a week’s notice. But he’s very kindly allowed me to stay away from the office till then on full pay.” Which is guaranteed to keep your mouth shut, thought Pollock sourly. A glance at Jacobstein told him his sergeant shared his thoughts. “Mr Roberts has bought my time and secretarial skills, nothing more, Inspector Pollock. Shall I begin at the beginning?” Her smile suddenly became that of a co-conspirator.

  “If you would, please, Miss Malone.”

  “Then perhaps just a character sketch, a very brief one, of Mr Wullie Roberts, part-time lecherer and full-time thug. Should I ask him for a reference, Mr Pollock?”

  “If he’s still in a position to think about it and write one, Miss Malone, why not?”

  “I shall take your advice. Now, as you know, I was Mr Roberts of the coal-righ empire’s confidential secretary. But having used the word ‘confidential’, I have to inform you that it was something of a misnomer for the man in question was a clam, although not as clean and definitely not as tasty. He was very selective as to the information accessible to everyone in the office, including me. Actually, I had no desire to probe further. But all that I’ve said regarding his desire to keep anything shady he might be involved in secret, is not strictly true. He did use his own form of code but a half-witted slug with a searing headache could have easily cracked it.”

  “And when were you privy to this code, Miss Malone?” ventured Jacobstein and immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  “At the Ardhu Hotel. Sleeping with the boss. Some hope! His hope! I’d have preferred the half-witted slug.”

  “Maybe your standards are too high, Miss Malone?” He’ll never learn, thought Pollock, as Jacobstein commented yet again. Pollock stepped in quickly.

  “Would you care to elaborate, Miss Malone?” he asked.

  “Those evenings were strictly overtime. My insistence, Mr Pollock. We went to that hotel roughly once a month. He dictated to me in the room booked for the evening, dinner not included, and he brought his own bottle. Whisky. Straight from an illicit still in darkest Airdrie. A man of questionable taste and as miserable as sin. I drink only soda water, if anyone’s interested.”

  “No soda water in darkest Airdrie?”

  “If there is, dear Wullie never brought it. The evening consisted of him dictating to me from a notebook, mostly in his cracked code which I personally cracked the first-time round.”

  “And this didn’t vary that evening?” Miss Malone shook her head.

  “No. If you’d like me to name names, I will. Only two were ever mentioned outright and these were Lena Dolan and Owen Farrell. The rest I have but they were actually nicknames that meant nothing to me.”

  “Was Meg Hughes mentioned?”

  “No, I’m sure she and Roberts met for the first time that morning of the interview. Had it not been for the family connection, she’d have been given the job whether she could count or not.”

  “So, what else took up the evening usually?” Pollock asked hopefully.

  “At about 7.30 pm, he usually left by the back stairs. The security person opened the back door for him and then he generally returned about 9.30pm or 10 o’clock the same way.”

  “Do you know what he was doing when he was away from the hotel?”

  “No, but I can guess.” So could the detectives.

  “And that evening was no different from all the others?” Pollock suggested. Miss Malone smiled but did not quite wink.

  “It was – different in a way, I mean. He was very agitated, didn’t even finish dictati
ng his notes. He kept looking at his watch and then he suddenly closed his notebook, put on his coat, stuffed the precious notebook into it and left by the back stairs.”

  “So how was it different apart from his preoccupation?”

  “His timing, Inspector Pollock. We’d gone there quite early as usual, about 6 o’clock. He left suddenly at about just after half-past six which had never happened before. Very unusual. I decided to follow him. It was no risk because of the fog. I got a cab seconds after I’d reached the street and off we went. I wasn’t actually that interested.”

  “So why did you decide to follow him? Boredom?”

  “Yes, just that, and a growing curiosity.”

  “And then what happened?” Pollock waited and hoped fervently for the right answer.

  “His cab stopped along the lane beside his own office building, St Justin’s Lane, and I couldn’t follow. I’d have been recognised right away by the cleaners and that would have been that. Resigning is one thing, being sacked is quite a different matter. I had more or less decided to leave, then I thought I’d give it another half-hour. I wondered if I’d been mistaken, that maybe this time it would just be a business meeting of the illicit kind, the ones I knew he dealt with, the ones in his secret book. The nicknames were mostly made up of physical characteristics.”

  “Where did you wait, Miss Malone?”

  “In that entrance to the newsagent’s.”

  “And for how long?”

  “It was just gone the half-hour when he came storming out of that side door to the coal-righ. I lived round there when my father came out of the army.”

  “Yes, we know.”

  “Thorough, aren’t you? Is that curry I smell?”

  “It is.”

  “For you?”

  “It is.”

  “Lucky man. Anyway, Roberts came out of the side door that leads to the coal-righ, ran along Great Eastern Road and back into the lane. I suppose his cab was still waiting there for I heard the clip-clop of hooves seconds later. I walked quickly up to the side door to see what had been going on. When I got there, I could hear some noise, no more than a murmur really and the swish, swish of a broom, I thought. Then a loud racket came from the pub just beyond the lane and I ran back to the cab and off to the hotel.”