by Angela Misri
Annie opened the door to the interrogation room, her eyes red from crying, and her father hauled me into a bear hug.
In our long friendship, I’d only met Annie’s father a half dozen times because he was always travelling, desperately seeking work to support his three children. He looked exactly like his twin boys, with dirty blonde hair and dark blue eyes, much darker than Annie’s own pale blue. The decades of working hard labour meant that despite being in his late fifties, he had the arms and torso of a man half his age, though he also had the scarred hands of someone who dealt with harsh materials and sharp tools.
Now he put a roughened hand on my face so gently that I felt the sting of tears in my own eyes, reminding me of my last moments with my mother. That rare intimacy between a parent and child was something I had sorely missed.
“Portia, I am sorry,” he said. “Annie and the boys talk about you all the time. I feel like you’re one of my own children and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to thank you for letting me say goodbye to my girl here.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Annie said, dissolving into tears again on a nearby chair.
“And I must ask you to do me another favour,” he said, smiling through his tears. “When I am gone, I need you to take care of Annie and my boys. I know you will, I know I almost needn’t ask, but since I won’t be able to thank you …”
“All right, enough of that talk,” I said, pushing him into a chair so that he was beside his weeping daughter. “Mr. Coleson, unless you tell me right now that you killed your foreman, we need to spend every minute we are together finding the actual murderer.”
“Of course I didn’t kill him!” Coleson said putting his arm around his daughter. “But the assistant … she saw us …”
“Right,” I said, pulling out my notebook. “Start from the beginning.”
He wove his fingers through Annie’s and started his story. “The Four Ducks is where we go after a long day. I’ve been in that pub three times a week for the entire time I’ve been out in Sandwell.”
“Your foreman, he frequented the pub too?”
“Barris Dubhthaigh, not an easy name to pronounce, and he’s a stickler for using his name, something about Gaelic pride,” Coleson explained. “He’s a diabetic, so he wasn’t there as often as us working boys, but he’d show up once a week, buy a round if he was happy with our work.”
I twirled my hand to indicate he should keep going with the story.
“So, about a month ago, I was supposed to come home to London for the weekend. You remember, Annie? For the boys’ birthday,” he said, turning to his daughter for confirmation. She nodded through her tears.
“Barris cancelled our leave, said we were working through the weekend to make up for some missing tools that had slowed our work. The whole crew, no exceptions,” Coleson said. “Suffice to say, his buying us a round at The Four Ducks did nothing to improve our mood, mine most of all. Could be that I said some things I shouldn’t have. Could be that I threw a mug of ale his way.”
Coleson hung his head. “He went to clean up in the men’s room and could be I followed him.”
Annie rubbed his back in sympathy.
“He was in a stall,” Coleson continued. “I swore at him from the sinks. He never came out, never answered. I used the urinal, washed my hands, waited. Nothing. I thought he was hiding in the stall, so I got bored o’ course and walked back out of the bathroom, still cussing up a storm. But I swear, I never touched the guy.”
“How much time passed between when he went into the bathroom and when you followed him?”
“Couldn’t have been more than five minutes.”
“And you saw nothing amiss when you walked into the bathroom?”
“I don’t know, it’s not the cleanest space, if you know what I mean.”
“But you know that Barris was in the stall?”
“Well, we all saw him go in and when I followed him, he wasn’t at the urinal, so he really had nowhere else he could be. No windows in that room to crawl out of,” answered Coleson.
I pulled out the crime scene notes provided by the prosecutor. “According to several witnesses, including Miss Valentine, who was sitting right next to the bathroom ‘sober as a priest,’ the next person who went in came out yelling that the foreman was dead.”
“That was the barman, Eugene,” Coleson said. “Owned the bar since his father died. Good man. No grudge against him. He just found Barris lying right inside the bathroom door, sprawled out.”
“Why couldn’t the barman be the murderer?” Annie asked.
“He opened the door and started yelling, he hadn’t even gone into the bathroom,” Coleson answered. “We could see Barris lying there, beaten bloody with a lead pipe lying right beside him.”
Annie winced and her father apologized to her. “Before I could do more than stumble over to the body, that Valentine girl is screeching that I be held down before I hurt anyone else. But I tell you both, I couldn’t have done it, even if I were angrier than I’ve ever been.”
“Of course not, Dad,” she whispered, her eyes on me. “Portia, what do we do?”
“We start by talking to this Valentine woman and find out why she was there,” I said, circling her name on my notepad.
Coleson looked between us with confusion. “Valentine? Why?”
“I’m betting that she did not frequent the pub,” I said, loading the notebook back in my satchel as I spoke. “Seeing as she was, as notes describe it, sober as a priest?”
“Who goes to a bar and doesn’t drink?” Annie asked, getting her coat on.
“You can stay with your father, Annie, I can …”
“No way. If this witch is lying, I want to be there,” Annie said, giving her father a kiss on the brow. “Plus, if you’re right, which you always are, he’ll be coming home to London with me tonight.”
According to Benton the bailiff, Sarah Valentine was scheduled to be called as a witness in the afternoon, so he knew exactly where she was. He knocked on the front door to her upstairs flat, introduced us, and promised to wait outside the door to keep everyone else out while we conducted our interview.
Valentine led us into her small sitting room, rubbing at her arms as if she were cold. The room was immaculate but for a large cabinet at the back of the room that had dishes and teacups stacked on top of it rather than inside, making it stand out for its clutter.
“I’ve just put the tea kettle back on, so it should be just a moment,” she said, her quiet voice matching her demeanour. Her clothing was very modest for a woman about the same age as Annie and me, bordering on puritanical with a high-necked blouse that got a lot of use, and a severe bun in her dark hair.
“Miss Valentine, I’m sorry to be asking you this so late in this case’s progression. I am sure you are tired of answering the same questions over and over again,” I said.
She nodded, but took a deep breath in, as if steeling herself for the worst. Looking at Annie and the way she was glaring at the woman, I could hardly blame her.
“What were you doing at The Four Ducks pub?”
“As I told the police and the prosecutor,” the woman replied, barely lifting her eyes from her lap, but speaking in a louder voice, “I was to meet my father there.”
“But you don’t drink,” I pointed out.
“No, I do not,” she affirmed. “But my father does and sometimes asks that I help walk him back home. I felt it was safer to wait inside for my father than outside.”
“Then your father was also a witness to the murder?” Annie asked.
“He was not in a state of mind to testify,” Sarah said, glancing up and then right back down at her hands in her lap. “Not many of them were, other than the barman and myself. Hence how I find myself in the situation I am in.”
“And can you tell me what exactly you saw that night?”
> “When I came in Mr. Coleson was — I’m sorry to say, Miss Coleson — deep in his cups,” she said, looking guilty for saying so. “I’ve witnessed that level of drunkenness many times before. It almost always leads to violence and it must be addressed, lest he take it out on someone else.”
I interjected here before Annie could rise to her father’s defence. “I did not ask what you assumed, Miss Valentine, I asked exactly what you saw. If we can stick to the facts, I think this will go easier.”
She flushed and nodded. “Of course, I do not mean to make this harder on Miss Coleson at all. The facts. I came into the pub, did not see my father, and so sat at a table away from the bar.”
“And why did you choose that table?”
“The only other chairs were in front of the bar itself and they were all taken. Also, this table had a single seat and I didn’t want to be engaged by a drunken patron.”
“Drawing on your experience?” I suggested with a smile.
She gave me a small smile back, appreciating my support of the shared strategy amongst women. “Yes. And when I sat down I saw Mr. Coleson pointing at the foreman, Mr. Dubhthaigh, and cussing at him. I wasn’t entirely clear on the issue, but it seemed that several of the men had unkind things to say about the foreman.”
“Your pronunciation of that name is better than ours, Miss Valentine,” Annie remarked before I could. “Is it in your family?”
Valentine nodded, still not meeting Annie’s eyes, and answered in a quieter voice, barely discernible to my ears. “Yes, on my mother’s side. She made sure we were fluent in Gaelic, even when the schools were against it.”
“Go on please, Miss Valentine,” I said.
“Mr. Coleson threw a drink at Mr. Dubhthaigh, forcing the poor man to get cleaned up. He was quite soaked and the barman and another man restrained Mr. Coleson.”
“Restrained for how long?”
“Not long. Certainly not long enough for Mr. Dubhthaigh to finish cleaning himself up.”
“Did anyone else leave the bar or enter the men’s room?”
“No, like I said, the men sitting at the bar held Mr. Coleson, tried to calm him, and then everyone sat back down as they were before.”
The sound of the kettle whistling brought a smile to my lips, mostly because I heard it, distinctly. Valentine got up with a jump, but not before I heard the whistle stop on its own. She had the tea back in front of us before I asked my next question.
“And this is when your father came in?”
The teacup she was handing to Annie shook in her hand, the answer I had been waiting for.
“Yes, my father came into the pub while all of this was happening,” Valentine said, completing the transaction of handing the teacup to Annie and sitting back in her chair. “And then Mr. Coleson went into the men’s room.”
“And what did you do while Mr. Coleson and Mr. Dubhthaigh were in there together?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you speak to your father? Did you leave your seat? What did you do?” I pressed.
“I … I did nothing,” she said, her nervousness back. “I heard Mr. Coleson continue to shout at Mr. Dubhthaigh. And then I saw him come back out, waving his hands.”
“Waving his hands?”
“Yes, shaking them off. I think he had washed them.”
I took note of that. “And where was your father?”
“He was in the pub, as I said,” Valentine answered immediately.
“Yes, but Portia is asking where,” Annie said, sitting forward a bit in her chair. “Was he also at the bar, ordering a drink? Or was he sitting with you?”
“He was … Yes, he ordered a drink at the bar,” Valentine said, nodding.
I flipped through my notes. “I don’t see that in the barman’s statement or in the receipts for the night …”
“Or maybe he just sat at the bar and didn’t order,” Valentine said, swallowing nervously. “I couldn’t be sure of that. I was, after all, beside the men’s room where it was quite loud.”
“Right and then after Mr. Coleson came out of the men’s room, did you see anything?” I asked.
“See anything? Other than Mr. Coleson shaking his hands of water? No.”
“Wait, so you think my father killed someone in the men’s room, washed his hands, and sat down for another drink?” Annie asked, incredulous.
“He was deep in his cups, as I said,” Valentine answered defensively. “The next thing I saw was the barman coming out from behind the bar, opening the door to the men’s room, and immediately calling for help.”
I read out from the notes. “Yes, the barman says you became quite hysterical at the sight of Dubhthaigh’s body and begged the rest of the patrons to restrain Mr. Coleson, lest he hurt anyone else.”
Annie took a sip of tea before saying, “The barman would not have had time or opportunity to beat Mr. Dubhthaigh.”
“Not at all,” Valentine agreed, mimicking Annie and taking a small sip of her own tea. “He opened the door and didn’t even step over the threshold. Mr. Dubhthaigh was there for all of us to see.”
“But when my father exited the men’s room, Mr. Dubhthaigh wasn’t there lying at the door,” Annie pointed out. “You surely would have seen him step over a body as he left.”
“I … I suppose he was not. But perhaps he dragged himself to the door. That’s what the prosecutor said. That Mr. Dubhthaigh had been left for dead and dragged himself to the door after Mr. Coleson left.”
“And when the barman raised the alarm, everyone came running?” Annie asked, looking through the notes in front of me, pulling up the witness statements.
Sarah Valentine nodded. “I didn’t move. I couldn’t. It was too horrible. But yes, I saw everyone run to the men’s room door, including Mr. Coleson.”
“And your father?” I asked.
Valentine nodded quickly and then threw in a “Yes, of course, my father was there as well. Surely that is in your witness notes? The police talked to him at length.”
“Yes, I see his statement, but I’m asking where he came from — the barstool where he was sitting?”
Annie put down her cup when Valentine nodded, glancing over her shoulder. “Could I get some more sugar from the pantry, Miss Valentine?”
“I … Let me get it,” she said, standing hastily.
I nodded at Annie as she waited for Sarah to leave the room and then followed her. I was unsurprised when she came back in the company of a large man.
“Mr. Valentine I presume,” I said, extending my hand.
The man grimaced at me. “I don’t shake hands with the likes of you.”
“Women, lawyers, or people who disrupt your plans?” I asked as Annie moved around behind me.
He took a step forward and I held my ground. “I will remind you, sir, that the bailiff stands outside your daughter’s door and would surely hear us when we scream, which I intend to, loudly, should you take another step in our direction. And you wouldn’t want an officer of the courts in here, would you, snooping around?”
He looked at the door, the cabinet at the back of the room, and then back at me with a menacing look. “I think you’re done here.”
“We are,” I agreed. “I believe I have all the information I need, and Miss Valentine, I suggest you return with us now to the courthouse.”
Mr. Valentine grasped his daughter’s upper arm, causing her to wince. “She isn’t goin’ anywhere.”
“That’s what you think,” Annie said, opening the front door. “Bailiff, we need to take Sarah Valentine with us back to the courthouse. Could you please advise Mr. Valentine of the judge’s orders?”
Valentine dropped his daughter’s arm as soon as the door opened and she looked a little faint, so I stepped up to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, leading her to the door w
here the bailiff and Annie stood.
I closed the door on the furious man in the apartment, handed the shaking daughter over to Annie’s capable arms, and said to the bailiff, “We need a police force here right now. I believe if you were to position men outside this door, you would catch Mr. Valentine attempting to leave this apartment with explosives that he stole from Mr. Dubhthaigh. And Benton, I’d get them here immediately unless you want to stop him by yourself.”
Astonished as he looked, he did as I bade, running to the nearest police box on the block.
“Portia …,” Annie said, her eyes wide. “What in the world …”
“Dubhthaigh is the true Gaelic form of O’Duffy, Annie,” I said, leading the women a safe distance from the door which could burst open at any moment. “Your father stumbled into a local in-fight of the Irish Resistance.”
“Miss Valentine, you have been harshly used by your father, both physically and now morally,” I said to the pale woman at Annie’s side. “You must right this. It will be as simple as admitting that your father told you to sit at that table and that he was not in the pub until after Mr. Dubhthaigh was discovered bleeding on the floor of the men’s room.”
She gaped at me. “How … How did you …?”
“Your father must have heard about the bombs through your mother’s family. Maybe he knows more Gaelic than they think he does. And not sharing in the Irish’s rather violent petitions for equality, decided he could sell the bombs for a pretty price,” I said, nodding at the bailiff who repositioned himself outside the Valentines’ door with his billy club out and in his hands. “He arranged you as the perfect credible witness and hid in the men’s room waiting for Dubhthaigh, knowing the man had diabetes and frequented the toilets more than the rest of us. As soon as the poor man opened the stall he was knocked out with the lead pipe and positioned on the toilet so that his feet were showing beneath the stall. Mr. Coleson came in, berated Dubhthaigh some more from outside the stall at the urinals and, not being engaged on the other side, left. At which point Valentine finished his bloody work and kicked poor Dubhthaigh to the floor and left him there for the next man to discover.”