In a League of Their Own

by Millie Gray

  Just as Sam was thanking the Deputy, the mess room door flew open and the station clerk announced loudly that Sam was needed in the station office as there was a serious and potentially fatal incident down at Inverleith. The Deputy, all too conscious of his force’s priorities, advised Sam to forget all about Mr Boland and turn his full attention to more serious matters. Replacing the phone, Sam muttered to himself, “Devote myself to more serious matters? Great! In that case I’ll never need to speak to Mr Wilfred Boland again!”

  Immediately, Sam motioned the clerk to come further into the room and give his report. At the same time he asked his shift sergeant, Graham McNiven, to join him and listen to the story being imparted. It transpired that the clerk had taken a frantic call from the house-owner at 4 Botanic Mews, reporting that it seemed more than probable that murder most foul had been committed at number two, the house adjoining her own. She had reached that conclusion on the basis of all the shouting and screaming coming from the house in the early hours of that morning. Moreover, the neighbour’s cats had not been let out as usual and had missed their customary morning treat provided by the caller.

  Sam watched the expressions on Graham’s face change from the affable to the incredulous. Thanking the clerk, Sam gestured to Graham and tersely said, “Let’s get going.”

  “Right, sir,” said Graham, putting on his cap at once. “Wonder what exactly the problem is down at Botanic Mews.”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders. “Now, Graham, before we go – where exactly is Botanic Mews?”

  “You know, sir, surely. Just behind the Royal Botanic Gardens.”

  “Of course. I should have known.” Sam’s thoughts were focused on the caller’s concern about the cats and he declared, “Know something? I’m right off animals the day. Never mind. Come on, Graham, and you too, son,” he added, turning to the constable, Harry Troupe, who was happily demolishing a bacon roll.

  Once back in the police car they sped towards Botanic Mews – a small but decidedly up-market cul de sac. With its blue lights flashing, their vehicle screeched to a halt and Sam couldn’t help but notice how tranquil and beautiful the house and gardens of number two appeared. And yet there was something quite disturbing about the square and immaculate lawn, which painfully resembled Mr Boland’s in that it seemed to have been manicured by hand rather than having been mown. The flower beds too were virtually identical to those in Wilfred Boland’s beds, being set in regimented squares with their flowers all of an equal height and organised in strict colour rotation.

  Glancing at the windows, Sam noticed that the curtains and blinds were all hung uniformly. Before he could speculate further about the motives of the people who felt compelled to dwell in the midst of such obsessive rigidity, the next-door neighbour appeared at his side.

  “I always knew it would come to this!” the woman announced emphatically.

  “And you are…?” Sam asked.

  “Mrs Doreen Smythe. I reside at number four.”

  Sam methodically extracted his notebook and began to write down these details.

  “He’s been pretending these last few weeks that he was still in employment, but I know that the printing firm he worked for has gone into administration.” Writing busily, Sam made no comment and allowed the woman to ramble on. “My son, who is a reporter for a London-based newspaper, informed me of the fact eight weeks ago.”

  Sam felt inclined to tell Mrs Smythe he was surprised that her son only worked for a newspaper because if he was anything like his mother he ought to be publishing his own. Restraining himself, he simply asked if there was a pathway around the house that might allow him entry.

  “No!” came the sharp retort. “Keeps his place locked up more securely than Fort Knox.”

  “Any chance of gaining entry through your back garden, Mrs Smythe?”

  The woman hesitated. “Well, I suppose, in the interests of the cats’ welfare, I might permit you access to my property. But only yourself, Inspector, you understand. I do not wish junior ranks with muddy feet trailing over my Wilton!”

  Ignoring Mrs Smythe’s conditions, Sam beckoned Graham and Harry to follow him as he made an elaborate display of wiping his feet spotlessly clean on the doormat.

  Once all three had emerged from the back door and clambered over the wall into the back garden of number two, it immediately became obvious they could only enter the house by breaking a side window. And once that was done, it was Sam of course, being the thinnest and fittest, who alone could squeeze through, hampered severely by a flurry of fur and the patter of paws as the three imprisoned cats desperately made good their escape over his body. With some relief he landed head first on the floor and instantly became aware of a cloying smell that reminded him vividly of Leith Hospital. The stench, he reckoned, was emanating from behind the kitchen door, but before proceeding any further he unlocked the back door and admitted his two colleagues. “Graham, you stay right here and don’t allow anyone past that door. Especially the lady from number four!” Sam emphasised as he pointed to the back door. “And you, Harry, come with me so that I’ve got a witness while I search this house.”

  The two men immediately headed for what proved to be the lounge. Here, the smell – which Sam by now had identified as ether – was quite overpowering. With the aim of opening a window Sam took a few steps forward, only to find his feet obstructed by two bodies lying behind the settee. One proved to be that of a rather pretty woman in early middle age, lying wide-eyed but unseeing, having obviously been subdued by the ether before being stabbed in the throat. The other was a man of similar age whose wrists had been cut and who was lying across the female body. A large carving knife lay close by. At once Sam turned to Harry, who by now was retching uncontrollably.

  “This your first time at a …” Sam hesitated before adding, “… at a violent death?” Harry nodded but words were beyond him. “Right then, my lad. You skedaddle back to Graham and tell him to phone CID and have them get down here pronto. Then take a dander around the gardens.”

  Harry looked puzzled.

  “Ye ken what I mean,” Sam explained patiently. “The Botanics of course! Get yourself some good fresh air there. Now off with you while I seal off this crime scene.”

  It was when he went over to the bodies once more to make certain there was no sign of life that the male figure uttered a faint moan. Sam shouted after Harry to tell Graham to call an ambulance. Bending down in an effort to clear the man’s airways, he wondered what could make a man murder his wife. In fact, he wondered why any human being would want to end the life of another. Sam’s thoughts flew back to his own childhood and to his feelings of terror when his mother and father were having yet another of their frequent heated arguments. He instantly recalled the time when his mother had lifted a hatchet menacingly with every indication of being about to smash it into his father’s skull. He could still picture only too clearly the colour draining from his father’s face as his knees buckled. Deadly white his father had lain there – just as bloodless as that poor lassie lying dead on the floor in front of him. It was Sam’s big sister, Hannah, who had managed to wrest the hatchet from his mother’s grasp, had chucked it into the glory-hole and had quickly closed the hatch door on it. Sam could still hear the heavy metallic clang that it made when it hit the stone floor. After that, the only sound was that of his mother bitterly hissing into his father’s ear: “You’re not even worth swinging for!” Those memories also triggered a mental reminder that he’d been told just the other day that his father, Johnny, was now very ill and in the City Hospital. Perhaps he should speak to Carrie about going to visit him there. On second thought, he wondered if he should even bother. After all, Johnny had never sought him out in all those years since his departure from the family home.

  When the CID arrived, Sam was somewhat surprised to find that newly promoted Superintendent Paul Campbell was in charge. With an outstretched hand and proud smile lighting up his face, Sam approached his brother. Ignoring the gestu
re, Paul ordered that all personnel other than his own CID squad should leave the house and wait in the garden.

  “But, Paul,” Sam interrupted, “I was the first officer on the scene and I need to give you my report.”

  Paul made no answer other than to indicate with an abrupt jerk of his thumb that Sam should join the other uniformed officers in the back garden.

  Humiliated, Sam strode purposefully out of the house and summoned Graham and Harry to join him in the divisional car. With the three on board Sam then drove the vehicle at a leisurely pace out of Botanic Mews. No one spoke.

  By the time they had returned to Drylaw Substation the duty clerk was out in the driveway and signalling urgently to Sam to wind down his window. Sam did so and asked, “A problem, is there?”

  “Y-yes,” stammered the clerk, “you’ve to return immediately to the scene of the crime at Botanic Mews. The Super also wants to know why you left without seeking his permission.”

  Sam wound up the window and put the car into gear but, instead of heading back down the road as instructed, he steered their car over to the parking bay and switched off the engine. Jumping from the vehicle, he made his way into the office. “Summations!” he demanded of the clerk. Quickly, the clerk handed over his list of all the occurrences since the shift had begun and Sam meticulously checked each incident, asking in-depth questions about each event. Once he had initialled each item and satisfied himself that the subdivision was running as he wished, he sat down next to the clerk whom he instructed to type out a statement detailing precisely the police involvement in Botanic Mews from the moment of his arrival at the scene of crime until Paul’s appearance. Once satisfied with the statement, he took it from the clerk, signed it and safely lodged it in his breast pocket. Then, instead of complying with yet a further request from Paul to return to the crime locus, he strolled along to the mess room and made himself a cup of instant coffee. He had just added the milk to the cup and raised it to his mouth when the duty clerk, who couldn’t fail to hide his embarrassment, came into the room to inform him that the Superintendent was now blowing a gasket – and demanding that Sam return to Botanic Mews without a moment’s delay. The clerk was now pleading to Sam with his eyes. “What will I say to the Super now?”

  Sam chuckled before answering. “Just tell him what I told you to say the last time – that I’ll comply with his request just as soon as my duties permit.” However, a further fifteen minutes were to elapse before he would condescend to adhere to his brother’s request.

  More than an hour had passed since Sam had left Botanic Mews before Graham eventually chauffeured him back to the crime scene. He had stepped leisurely out of the vehicle when Paul leapt towards him.

  “What the hell d’ye think you’re playing at?”

  Sam smiled and nonchalantly indicated to Paul that they should move indoors and have their conversation there.

  “I repeat,” Paul snarled, once they were installed in the dining room that had obviously been taken over as the command centre. “What do you think you’re up to, leaving the scene like that?”

  Sam sat down at the table, facing his brother. “You made a complete fool of me and my men. We were made to feel, as the CID always wants, just like uniformed numpties.”

  “I was only trying to take charge and stop any further contamination of the crime scene by your clumsy …” Paul stopped in embarrassment before going on, “I mean your untrained officers.”

  “No you weren’t, sonny boy. You were trying to be seen as the big man. Well, let me tell you, and tell you good: you do not dismiss me, or anyone else, with the contempt you showed when you arrived here this morning. And a man in your position should be doing all he can to end the tension that exists between CID and the uniformed branches – not make it worse!”

  Paul bristled. He didn’t like being reminded of his obligations. “I know what’s wrong with you,” he retorted, “you’re simply jealous because I’m getting on better than you.”

  Sam laughed aloud. “Look, I could have gone to the CID but it wasn’t for me. I like being a community guy. I don’t want to be up to my knees in blood and tears every weekend.”

  “Says you. But, as Yvonne says, I’m a cut above anybody else in the family.”

  “So that’s what it’s all about, is it? Mrs Hoity-toity, the royal fishwife, getting above herself?”

  “No she isn’t. She’s an asset to me. And if you’d asked for her help when Hannah’s Jamie was killed, you’d have got it. But we weren’t even told – never mind not being asked to the funeral.”

  “Only Mam was at the funeral. And just ask yourself this, Paul. When have you ever done anything for the family since you and darling Yvonne got hitched?”

  “Yvonne has a position to keep up. She’s an infant mistress now and how do you think it feels for her having to introduce people to Mam who’s only a tea-lady at the hospital and who works in Kemp’s bakery on the ovens.”

  Sam jumped from his chair and made a lunge at Paul as he yelled: “Believe me, sonny, my mother is a lady – a lady whose shoes your wife isn’t good enough to clean – never mind fill.” But instead of carrying out his threat to assault Paul, Sam took the report from his breast pocket and flung it towards him. “All you need to know about what happened in this house before your arrival is accurately detailed here. All that is, except for the reason for the needless tragedy that occurred here today. Which, in my opinion, was caused by someone being a social climber and forgetting his humble roots!”

  13

  BREAKERS AHEAD

  Carrie had just gone into her office when she found Mrs Brockie, one of the school’s dining attendants, waiting impatiently for her. “I’m so sorry,” she said, taking off her coat and hanging it up.

  “Aye, and so you should be. It’s now gone half past eleven,” pronounced Mrs Brockie with arms akimbo and her right foot tapping the floor irritably, “and you still haven’t told us exactly how many will be for dinner the day.”

  “I really am sorry,” Carrie replied as she sat down at her desk and began totalling up the figures, “but David Foster was hurt in the playground.”

  “Yon wee haemophilic laddie?”

  “Aye. So Mr Hamilton phoned for a taxi and put David and me in it, telling the driver to get us to Leith hospital as quick as possible.”

  “Did you leave the wee lad there?”

  “Not till Mr Hamilton arrived with David’s mother. Then he drove me back up the road.”

  “A real guid man, that new headmaster of ours. Took on that haemophilic laddie without a second thought.”

  Refusing to be drawn into the controversy about David’s admission to mainstream classes at Hermitage Park, Carrie merely remarked, “Well, he’s certainly a change from his predecessor,” who hadn’t even looked like an educated man, let alone a headmaster. William Hamilton, on the other hand, was a man whom no child could fear because he looked so much like a benevolent grandfather, with his portly build, smiling face and somewhat amusing side-whiskers cultivated, Carrie was sure, to compensate for his balding crown. Like all men of his age, Willie Hamilton was not immune from personal vanity. But all she said to Mrs Brockie was, “And did you know he had once been a teacher here?”

  “Away!”

  “Aye, and a good one at that.” Carrie face beamed with pride. “Taught my brother Paul, so he did. You know, the one that was promoted last week to Chief Superintendent.”

  “Your Paul promoted again?” Mrs Brockie said with a sniff before pursing her lips and chuckling, “And what about Sam? Is he still acting the goat?”

  Carrie bristled. “Sam’s turn will come, never you fear. And there’s some that would say Sam’s the better cop.”

  “No need to get shirty. I was just teasing. There’s nobody a bigger fan of Sam than me. Oh aye, I’m that grateful, so very grateful, to him and yon Kennel Club he runs, for training my wee dog, Satan, to stop frae biting folk.”

  “Right enough. He did get your Alsatia
n to stop taking lumps out of folk. All, that is, bar the poor postie.”

  Mrs Brockie was about to retort that the postman, who never delivered anything to her but bills, could do with a good bite taken out of him, when the distinctive tap-tapping of the Infant Mistress’s feet approaching the office made both women grimace. Quickly, Carrie stood up and thrust the dinner list into Mrs Brockie’s hand, blurting out, “So sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mrs Brockie.”

  Delivering an obviously feigned cough, Miss King observed tartly, “Ahem! It’s not only Mrs Brockie who is inconvenienced by her malingering and gossiping here, but my Infants who are going to have to wait for their midday meal.”

  Deciding, as everyone else did, that there was no point in arguing with Miss King, Mrs Brockie slipped smartly behind the headmaster’s desk and fled out of the door.

  Satisfied that Mrs Brockie had been effectively dealt with, Miss King turned to Carrie. “Now, Mrs Fraser. How did David fare at the hospital?”

  Carrie smiled to herself. For all her frosty and standoffish manner, Miss King, like Mr Hamilton, truly cared about the welfare of all the children under her control. And, like the headmaster, she tried to enhance their lives by introducing them to the arts. Carrie remembered how two weeks ago most of the teaching staff had sniggered when Miss King had the children walk into school while Strauss’s Tales from the Vienna Woods was being played in the background. The general opinion that day amongst the staff was that the children would have reacted better to Tony Bennett singing Let’s Call It a Day. However, they were nonplussed later that week when the music teacher asked the children what music they preferred listening to and there was a resounding chorus of “Strauss!”

  “Mrs Fraser, did you hear me? I asked you how David…?”

  “There didn’t seem to be a problem,” Carrie hastily replied.

  “Mrs Fraser, David suffers from haemophilia and a mere scratch could prove fatal.”